


stitch it together, kid, I know you know better

by youabird (nevulon)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Body Image, Coping, Developing Relationship, Everyone is Bad at Feelings and/or Communication, Fix-It, Home Improvement, Injury Recovery, Interior Decorating, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 59,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26824066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevulon/pseuds/youabird
Summary: After moving to California to live with Richie, Eddie starts kissing him. And redecorating his house.Richie is honestly unsure which one is more surprising.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 317
Kudos: 820





	1. Valspar #T671, Bedside Manner

**Author's Note:**

> title from Mt. Joy's "I'm Your Wreck," which is a Richie song.
> 
> they are middle aged assholes going through trauma, career changes, grappling with their sexualities, a divorce and/or their first significant relationship, and home renovations; accordingly they will act out quite a bit. specific warnings in chapter endnotes but general warnings include: Richie's internalized homophobia and Eddie's largely unvocalized but equally complicated relationship with his sexuality; Richie's old stand-up is discussed in several places; Eddie is recovering from a near-fatal wounding and has feelings about his appearance and his physical abilities; Richie's mental health and terrifically bad coping mechanisms; & passing references to canon typical gore, injuries and death.
> 
> but it is primarily about interior decorating and slow burn romance. this i promise you.

He had been back in LA for four months, but Richie still wasn't used to coming home at the end of the day. The commute from downtown to his neighborhood along the beach was the same, but the destination was very different. It was still his house, unassuming, gated, a gravel driveway with a square of scrubby, overgrown lawn out front. But the lights were on inside. The shoes by the front door were stacked neatly now, and his keys joined another keyring and a paperback mystery novel left carelessly behind on the console table. There was someone waiting up for him. Instead of the cold, dark house, silent except for the air conditioner, there was Eddie.

Eddie coming to the door of the kitchen to greet him. Eddie, his hair soft and curling behind his ears.

Eddie in an apron.

Richie grinned at him and slipped out of his shoes. "Aloha, Eduardo."

Eddie didn't move. Folding his arms, he leaned one hip against the door frame. "If I killed you," he said, tone conversational, "It would be justifiable homicide."

Ignoring that, Richie divested himself of his jacket and keys and crossed the wide expanse of living room to Eddie. The apron was plain, utilitarian, double-knotted in front in the manner of a professional chef. Eddie was no professional, but of course he insisted on this. Richie, delighted, ran his finger across the fabric, slipping underneath the ties to trace Eddie's ribs. "I like the apron," he said.

"Shut the fuck up," Eddie said, heated for no reason. "It's _yours_."

"Yeah, but it looks better on you." Richie had never worn this apron, not in his memory. Either way it would look better on Eddie. It made him look competent and prissy, and the gray cotton contrasted with the flush rising up his throat. Humming, Richie pulled at the apron strings til the knot slipped free. "How long til dinner?"

Eddie's eyes flicked back to the kitchen. "Twenty minutes."

That was an ocean of time. "Well, gee, Eddie," Richie said, crowding Eddie up against the door frame, "What are we gonna do til then?"

Eddie rolled his eyes, but he also slipped the apron over his head and let it fall to the floor. "I can think of a few things," he said, and then yanked Richie down by the collar to kiss him.

Eddie was still a bad kisser. Not _terrible_ —Richie had kissed a lot of people, of all possible levels of enthusiasm and skill, so he felt qualified to say that Eddie was not bad _at_ kissing. But he wasn't going to win any competitions, either. Eddie kissed like he'd been unleashed. He was bossy, and demanding, and he never slowed down, never settled into a rhythm. He kissed like he was trying to climb inside Richie's skin. During their first, frantic kiss, Eddie had sucked on Richie's tongue so hard that the underside of his tongue had been sore and tender for the next two days. Richie had been delighted by that small, sharp hurt. For one, Eddie had given him a _sex injury_. They were not having sex but still, Richie reasoned, it counted; and wouldn't his sixteen year old self have been overjoyed, that Eddie had injured him with almost-sex? 

For two, the lingering physical ache was proof that it had happened at all.

After a hazy minute or two, Eddie pulled back, only enough to press a kiss to Richie's jaw. "Couch," he said.

"Mm, I love when you get all monosyllabic and grunty."

"You want to see grunty? Get. On. Couch," Eddie said, and smacked him on the ass. Laughing, Richie went.

They had a routine for this. Richie laid down on his back, half-propped up against the arm of the brown leather sofa, and Eddie settled on his thighs. Richie, as always, kept his hands to the safe zone of Eddie's neck and shoulders. He told himself it was out of deference to the massive puncture wound from which Eddie was still recovering, but mostly it was cowardice. Despite sitting in Richie's lap, Eddie never pressed the issue. He was interested in kissing and kissing only. No matter what, Eddie's hands remained loosely curled on the arm of the sofa, touching Richie only incidentally.

Which was fine. Richie didn't flatter himself that the kissing had anything to do with _him_. One night, after dinner, Eddie had said, "Hey, come here a minute," and when Richie obliged, Eddie had leaned up and planted one on him. That they were still kissing, a month later, was evidence of a gay panic, or a divorce panic. Maybe it was just the logical next step after nearly dying in a sewer: start an ill-advised, chaste affair with your roommate. He _was_ convenient, after all. Eddie had said nothing after that first kiss; Richie would have believed he'd hallucinated it, if not for the little sting in his tongue.

They still hadn't talked about it, but Eddie kept kissing him. And kept not talking about it.

It never meant anything good when someone kissed you and then refused to talk about it. That part sucked; that part hurt like a motherfucker. But Richie would suffer worse if it meant getting Eddie's mouth on his. 

Sprawled out on his back, Richie did his best to keep himself still as Eddie climbed into his lap. His back, already prickling with sweat, was glued to the leather couch cushion. Eddie settled himself, his slim thighs pinning Richie's legs together. He wasn't heavy, but compact; sometimes Richie's thighs went half-numb from the pressure of him. Unlikely today, though, when they only had twenty minutes.

Eddie, the little shit, kissed him as soon as he was settled. Richie let him, balling his hands into fists on Eddie's shoulders so he wouldn't do anything unforgivable.

But he wanted to.

He wanted to put his hands up the back of Eddie's shirt and feel the muscles there, the divots of Eddie's spine. He wanted to yank Eddie forward, into the cradle of his hips, and grind on him until they both came in their pants. He wanted, very badly, to put his teeth on the tendon in Eddie's jaw that came out when Eddie threw his head back. Instead, Richie focused on kissing.

Eddie was moving too fast, kissing him too hard—probably thinking about the timer. Richie, pinned on his back, unable to move his hands off the plane of Eddie's shoulders, despaired of him. He could easily spend the whole twenty minutes coaxing Eddie to slow down, to enjoy it.

The timer had not beeped when Eddie suddenly pulled away. "Oh, shit. Is it—you okay?" Richie said, instantly regretting it.

But Eddie barely noticed the question, apart from saying reflexively, "Shut up, I'm fine." The skin just beneath his lower lip was swollen and pink; a jolt of heat zipped up Richie's spine. "I'm just—you know Bill."

Richie wasn't following. "I'm familiar with his work, yeah."

"You know how he just bought the new Pacific Palisades house. It got me thinking. Do you own this house?"

"Eddie, I'm forty-one years old."

Eddie shook him, gently, by the hair. "Answer the question, Rich."

It was hard to think when his whole body was on fire, but Richie tried valiantly. "Yes, I own the house," he said, pulling against Eddie's hold, his scalp prickling when Eddie held him firmly. "For like, seven years. Why?"

"Well. Honestly, it's kind of... fratty. You know, the brown carpet. The holes in the wall."

"There are not _holes_ in the wall," Richie said, offended, which led to Eddie slithering off his lap and to his feet. Richie, startled and mourning the end of their kiss, only had a moment before he was likewise yanked upright. Eddie led him to the downstairs bathroom, the one right across the hall from his guest bedroom. Before Eddie came from New York, the bedroom had been an office and this bathroom had been the house bathroom. Now it was Eddie's. And despite the fastidious cleanliness of the room—Eddie insisted—there were holes in the wall.

Six of them, of varying sizes. The smallest were clearly thumbtack holes, not that Richie remembered posting flyers in his bathroom, but the largest was a gouge nearly the diameter of a penny. "Oh shit," Richie said, poking at it until it left a ring on the pad of his thumb. Definitely a hole. Richie had never noticed it before, despite its size and placement, just below eye level. "Wow. What do you know."

"I told you," Eddie said. "Have you never noticed the holes in the wall? You piss in here like, three times a day."

"My back is to the wall." Almost all of the holes were in the opposite wall, next to the big mirror. And Richie had never thought to check for damage. Other than the dent that was clearly the product of the door handle swinging into the wall, he had no idea how they had come to be.

"Don't you wash your hands?"

Eddie was looking so irate that Richie couldn't resist saying, "What, every time?"

"You're not funny, you asshole," Eddie retorted. He knew he was being baited, but he'd never developed any self-preservation around this issue. Thirty years later and he still liked to run headlong at Richie's waving red capes. "I can't believe you haven't dealt with them. Or at least _painted_ in here. How long have you lived here, and you never repainted?"

"Maybe I did. Maybe I like this color."

"Nobody likes this color."

Laughing, Richie stepped into Eddie's space. "Jeez, Eds, tell me how you really feel."

"I am telling you," Eddie said waspishly. His hands came up to push at Richie's chest, but without force. Then they looped around Richie's neck, even as he said, "Stop crowding me, asshole."

Richie laughed again, low. It made Eddie shiver, which Richie only knew because Eddie's back was against the sink and his front was against Richie's chest. "You go back to the 'asshole' well too often, Spagheds."

"Who the fuck would go to an asshole well, that's disgusting—"

The rest of his sentence got lost. Eddie feigned resistance for a half second, and then he opened his mouth under Richie's.

Kissing standing up was different from kissing on the couch. The height difference was more apparent this way, which pissed Eddie off—he kept surging up on his toes to slot their mouths together better. He smelled good, too, and Richie pressed his nose up against the soft skin where Eddie's jaw and neck met to breathe in the smell of him, cologne and clean sweat. Eddie made a tiny noise in his throat when Richie applied teeth to that patch of skin. What would he do if Richie bit down, hard, the way he wanted?

Richie was unlikely to ever find out. Instead, he dragged his mouth down the curve of Eddie's jaw, back to his lips. Eddie pushed up on tiptoes to meet him there and pulled til Richie was bending down, both palms flat on the bathroom vanity.

Too soon they were interrupted by a harsh, insistent beeping noise. It was Eddie's phone alarm, in the pocket of his sweatpants. "Soup," he said, voice ragged. 

Groaning, Richie let his forehead knock against Eddie's shoulder, but without force. "Fuck the soup."

"You'd burn your dick."

Richie laughed. Eddie, it turned out, was funny. He'd been funny as a kid, and then spent most of that horrible lost weekend in Maine too anxious to really joke, but safe and relaxed and thoroughly well-kissed, he was a riot. "What kind of soup is it?"

"Chicken tortilla."

"Aww," Richie said, pleased, "But you hate flavor."

Eddie sighed so heavily that Richie felt it everywhere, but particularly against his mouth, still set against Eddie's collarbone. "I fucking hate you, but I still put up with you, don't I?"

The kitchen smelled incredible, the warm smell of soup permeating the air as Eddie dished up two identical bowls. One of the first goals Eddie had set for himself, way back in November when he had first arrived in California, was to cook for himself. And by extension, for Richie. He had a number of reasons for this—"I'm not having you pay for takeout, Richie," "Do you have any _idea_ how much salt they put in prepackaged foods?"—but he'd been militant about it. In December he'd managed grilled cheese, and now that he could stay standing for a while, he had improved to actual meals. Because he still got tired easily, he made soup, and roasts, and things that could sit on the heat while Eddie rested on the couch.

Not that Richie minded. He had never eaten so well in his life. Maggie Tozier had been a big believer in frozen pizzas, casseroles and canned tuna fish. Then he'd been a struggling comedian and then a successful comedian—neither of which inclined him to meal planning. 

He _had_ been worried at first, though. Eddie didn't really hate flavor, but Richie had spent two months in a short-term apartment in Bangor with Eddie after his discharge while Eddie relearned how to walk and mostly weaned himself off painkillers. During those months, Eddie had subsisted on "healthy" microwave dinners, limp vegetables and unsauced meats. Richie figured he could _survive_ eating like that, but he'd also sighed in relief when Eddie had started experimenting with butter and seasoning.

He had also experienced a private, guilty thrill when Eddie mentioned that he had never cooked, not once, during his marriage. Eddie had been disgruntled about this—Myra had forbidden him, and Eddie was now bitter about choking down plain chicken for a decade—but Richie had been selfishly happy. It made the cooking new, untouched by Eddie's old life.

On the counter, Eddie set out mismatched bowls of sour cream, shredded cheese, and avocados cut into razor thin sections. Richie, without being told, fetched the corn chips from the high shelf; Eddie still had trouble reaching above his head. "Smells good," he said, dumping crumbled handfuls onto his bowl.

"Ben sent me the recipe," Eddie said. "He also sent me one for goulash, but I don't think I'm ready for that yet. All that paprika."

Richie, who wasn't sure he knew what paprika tasted like, didn't comment. Bearing both bowls of soup aloft, he led Eddie back to the sofa.

The couch was good for a lot of things. In a pinch, it made a decent bed—Richie had slept on it many times, before Eddie had moved in, when he was drunk or depressed about his life. Currently, it mostly did triple-duty as a coatrack, makeout spot and kitchen table. They never ate in the dining room, preferring to spread out on the ugly brown couch and watch TV.

He flipped to something soothing, a cable rerun of a movie he'd seen a thousand times. Eddie settled into the corner of the sofa, his back against the armrest that Richie had been leaning against half an hour ago. The gesture was not lost on Richie. Kissing was a sometimes activity. Eddie was kissing him pretty regularly, sure, but not all the time. When they weren't kissing, they were just Richie and Eddie, same as they'd always been.

"So, what did you pay for the house?" Eddie said, scraping his spoon against the bottom of the bowl. "You bought it in what, 2009, you must have gotten a good deal."

"I have no idea," Richie said. This earned him a disbelieving stare. "No, I'm not kidding. Eddie, I pay someone to deal with that shit."

"What do you mean, you pay someone to deal with it? Richie, you pay a financial advisor to give you advice!"

Richie paid two different people to move his money around; he had their names written down but he sure as shit didn't know anything about them, other than it was their job to keep him from waking up bankrupt. "I assure you, I do not."

"What's your mortgage payment?" Eddie demanded. Richie became extremely fascinated with the texture of his own jeans, and Eddie, outraged, nearly overturned bowl of soup. "Richie!"

"Do you want to look at my bank statement, Eds?"

Eddie did want that, very much. Richie could tell because his mouth disappeared into a flat line across his face. "No," he lied.

"Eds."

"Don't call me that."

"Eddie," Richie persisted, "If you wanna look at my bank accounts, baby, all you have to do is ask."

"I don't," Eddie said, but he did. Richie knew he did. Eddie liked to tell other people what to do with their money. He had convinced his home-health nurse in Bangor to refinance her student loans, in between PT sessions and careful cleaning of his surgical dressing. He and Stan emailed back and forth about investments and "the market," and while he'd been waiting for his mandatory medical leave of absence to expire, he'd spent weeks helping Bill reinvest his money, post-divorce. Richie had had a feeling that one of these days Eddie was going to demand his financial records; he'd just figured that Eddie would come straight out and ask.

Sighing theatrically, Richie let his knee knock into Eddie's thigh. "I knew you were into me for my money."

"Oh my god, shut up, dickwad," Eddie said. His ears were pink. He was so cute, flushed and indignant and curled up in his sweatpants. "How was work, by the way?"

"Good."

Eddie made a noncommittal noise. "Just good?"

"There's nothing interesting to say about writing jokes," Richie said, and there wasn't. "I wrote some jokes. Most of them weren't that funny."

Eddie didn't say anything, just gave him a long, searching look.

Richie didn't like to talk about his job. He was trying to rehabilitate his public persona into something less embarrassing, but it was slow going. And the process of doing it was fucking hell—he had to tell jokes that he himself had written, out loud, so that people could hear them. Had Richie not lived through actual evil clown murder and Eddie's almost-death, he'd swear that public vulnerability was the worst thing a person could suffer.

He didn't say that. Instead, he said, in a light-hearted voice, "Are you thinking about my money again?"

As usual, Eddie took the bait. "Of course I'm thinking about the money! Who doesn't know what they paid for their house, Richie, _God_."

"I'll find the paperwork tomorrow."

"Oh." Eddie turned cagey again. "You don't have to do that."

"I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it," Richie said. "If it's gonna get you off to look at my credit report, you go crazy, okay?"

"It's not going to _get me off,_ oh my god, Rich," Eddie said indignantly, but he didn't say anything more about the money. This, Richie knew, meant that he had triumphed. Feeling smug, Richie kicked his feet up onto the coffee table and basked in the warm glow of tricking Eddie into doing what he already wanted to do.

+++

Eddie woke before Richie did. Even though he was still on a twenty-hour work schedule, Eddie liked to be logged on at eight-thirty, every morning. Richie, who slept to noon if given the choice, rarely saw him in the mornings. On the infrequent occasion he woke in time, his heart ached at the sight of Eddie, sleep-ruffled at the dining room table, clutching his coffee mug, bathed in the blue light of his laptop screen.

As happened most mornings, Eddie was already working when Richie rolled out of bed around nine-thirty the next day. By the time Richie had showered and dressed for his meeting, Eddie had woken up properly. He no longer looked sleepy and sweet, but disgusted at whatever was happening on his computer. He _did_ , Richie noted, smile when he saw Richie coming down the stairs.

The smile quickly vanished when he saw what Richie was carrying.

"Alright, Eddie Spaghetti," Richie said as he swung into the dining room with ten years of financial ledgers in his arms. "I brought you the motherlode. Credit cards statements, checking accounts, retirement. And I don't know what the hell is in _this,_ " he said, lugging a heavy banker's box onto the table, "But my accountant gives me one of these boxes every year."

Eddie, alarmed, looked at the papers Richie had just dumped all around him. His expression shifted to fury as he lifted the lid off the box and produced a sheaf of papers. "It's your tax returns. Richie, _please_ tell me you know what a tax return looks like."

"Why, Mister, you want me to tell a lie?" Richie asked in a Voice like a Southern belle.

Being yelled at wasted twenty minutes of his morning. Not that Richie really cared—he liked when Eddie yelled at him, and he was only meeting his new manager, Paulette.

Paulette had been his new manager for four months, was in her early thirties and talked like Marisa Tomei in _My Cousin Vinny_. Richie had hired her without intending to. Steve had said a lot of heinous shit to him about cancelling the tour and absconding to Maine, so Richie had fired him. Desperate for new representation, he'd met with Paulette as a courtesy. Her opening pitch was, "You're about a million times funnier than your writers make you look, which means you're a million times stupider than you look, because not only have you got writers, you got _bad_ writers."

Richie had hired her on the spot.

He was her only major client, and thus he was confident she would not fire him for showing up late to their meeting. He was right—she rolled her eyes at him as she waved him into her tastefully modern office, but didn't otherwise seem to care. "How're things?" she said, as Richie threw himself into the chair set opposite her desk.

"Delightful."

"How's the boyfriend?"

"Roommate," Richie said. Paulette fluttered her hand dismissively, and her earrings jangled. Paulette was a very good manager, who had saved his career from the sharp nosedive he'd left it in, but she was allergic to personal information. He had told her one thousand times that Eddie was his childhood best friend who was staying with him. This did not stop her from referring to him as _the boyfriend_. She also asked him regularly about his parents; Richie had given up on telling her that his father had been dead for a decade. 

She typed something for a moment. Right now, she was arranging a tour for him, something that would stretch from mid-summer to early autumn and hopefully reintroduce him to the world. In service of that, she was setting up small gigs around LA for him to practice the new show. The one _he'd_ written. Currently, Richie had performed it mostly for other comics and, once, at a hole-in-the-wall club where die-hard stand-up fans congregated in small numbers. The show had been well received. But thinking about taking it on the road to the masses, exposing any part of him that was _real_ , made Richie break out in hives.

Paulette hit the return key on her keyboard, hard. "I want to talk to you about the Amazon show."

Richie groaned. "Paulette. Amazon hates me."

"No offense, Rich, but Amazon doesn't know who the fuck you are. You are not on Bezos's shit list."

"Okay, but I'm on that VP of content creation or whoever the fuck's shit list, for sure."

Paulette wanted to get him a taped special. To accomplish this, she had trotted him out to the usual suspects: Netflix, Amazon, HBO. So far, nothing, but Richie _had_ managed to piss off the Amazon delegation by being a nervous, mouthy, uncouth wreck. 

"Rich," she said. She turned away from the computer, gave him a frank look. "The _Suspension_ people want to talk to you, and they're not beholden to the VP of content creation or whoever the fuck. So it doesn't matter that you were an ass in the meeting."

_Suspension_ was one of those comedies where no one ever laughed. It was about a high school teacher involved in a drug smuggling operation; Richie had never seen it but it had won several Emmys last year. Bill, for some reason, had somehow passed Richie's name to the EP, and Paulette had dug her teeth into the idea. She thought Richie could act. Richie doubted that, very much.

"You say that like I won't fuck that up too," Richie said petulantly.

Paulette sighed. "I'm talking about a meeting. _Maybe_ an audition. Can you at least promise me you won't blow it up before it even comes to exist?"

"What, you think I have self-destructive tendencies or something?"

Paulette gave him an uncomfortably knowing look. She did not care about his personal life, but she _did_ see him. She knew he was self-destructive, and she knew he was petrified by his own material. Last month, on a particularly bad day when Richie had embarked on a full-scale panic attack, he had tried to fire her; she had simply waited him out until he apologized.

In retrospect, Richie was glad he hadn't fired her. But sometimes, in dark moments, he wondered if ditching his writers hadn't been a huge, life-altering mistake.

"Fine," he said. "I'll behave."

The rest of their meeting was devoted to the summer tour. Paulette wanted to extend the dates into early September so he could play college homecomings. That sounded like hell to Richie—being outside on a stage, while children stared up at him with their mocking eyes—until she read him some price quotes. Richie grudgingly agreed to think about it.

It was a normal day. He got lunch with a comic friend, ran errands, and sat in a coffee shop trying to write more of his new routine. Before Eddie moved in, he'd written at home, in the office; he'd never written anything worth keeping, but he'd spent hours of his life staring miserably at his laptop. Then Eddie came. Now the office was a guest room and the upstairs guest room was a mishmash of furniture, Eddie's boxes from New York and random junk that had nowhere else to go. Now Richie did most of his writing in the car—he'd written the vast majority of the new set in a single traffic jam on the 10.

But it was nice to go to a coffee shop and eat a muffin, whiling the afternoon away. He even wrote a bit about his junior prom, and the unsuspecting girl he'd dragged to it, that he halfway liked. Not his most productive day, but not terrible. At five, he threw away his muffin wrapper and bought another cup of coffee to go. It was a Friday. Eddie didn't have PT and had no plans with Bill, not that Richie knew of. It was just the two of them this evening, and Richie didn't like to make Eddie wait.

The evening traffic slid along at a crawl. By the time Richie returned home, the sun had set, and all the houses on his street were lit up behind their gates. Richie's house was too, but when he let himself in, no signs of life greeted him. Eddie wasn't sitting on the couch, or at the dining room table where his computer lay open; his bedroom door was ajar but the room beyond was dark.

Richie, panicking already, forced himself to be calm. "Eds?" he called, tossing his keys onto the console table. "Eddie my love?"

Blessedly, Eddie's face popped up over the back of the sofa. "Don't fucking call me that."

Relief hit him like a blow to the spine. "Oh, there you are, Eds." Eddie made a disgusted noise and then disappeared again. He was, Richie realized as he came into the living room, lying flat on his back, exactly the way Richie did when they kissed. Not that Eddie looked to be inviting Richie to kiss him: he lay as stiff as a board, hands clasped over his face, the TV off and his laptop abandoned in the dining room. What the fuck? "Eddie," Richie said, "You look a little..."

" _What?_ " Eddie demanded, startling Richie backwards until he banged into the coffee table. "How do I look, Rich? Tell me how I'm supposed to look when I have been staring into the fucking abyss that is your checking account, you overgrown, shit-for-brains, bucktoothed _idiot_."

He did not uncover his face for this speech, although he did wiggle his elbows emphatically. Richie, startled into laughter, sat down on the edge of the coffee table. "Hey, leave my teeth out of it."

"Richie, a checking account is only federally insured up to two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," Eddie said. He sounded _so_ mad. He flung his hands off his face at last, fixing Richie with his big eyes full of rage and reproach. "Your Chase account has six hundred and thirty thousand dollars. That's three hundred and eighty thousand dollars down the toilet if the bank folds, do you _realize_ that? Who puts half a million dollars in their checking account?"

"It autopays the mortgage, Eds," Richie said, grinning.

Eddie sat up, about to yell more, but Richie leaned into his space. Immediately on the defensive, Eddie snarled, "Don't try to be _cute_ with me. Richie, I'm so fucking mad at you. Do not—"

Richie laid a wet, smacking kiss on the tip of Eddie's nose. For a moment, a look of abject horror overtook Eddie's face; then he dissolved into laughter. Real laughter, big belly laughs, the kind that made him sag forward into Richie's arms.

"Eds," Richie said, squeezing him into a hug. Eddie felt good in his arms, solid and comforting. "Take deep breaths. It's just money."

"You should have that money _invested,_ Richie," Eddie said, but he didn't wriggle out of Richie's arms. The fight seemed to have gone out of him. "Where did you even _get_ six hundred and thirty thousand dollars, I thought you were a C-list comedian."

Richie couldn't help but laugh. "Went left me a chunk of change when he died, and my mom told me to keep it. Guess she was worried about me being a C-list comedian. So I bought the house," he said, shrugging. There was some sort of financial crisis happening at the time, and he had purchased the house a quarter-mile from the beach for, the realtor assured him, a song. "Was that all you found? Because the mortgage account makes perfect sense, Eddie, it deducts the money automatically and that way I never miss a payment—"

Eddie groaned deeply, as if he were in pain. "That's not all. You have to fire your financial advisors. They're incompetent. They're worse than incompetent. Your Vanguard portfolio was below market average for the last six quarters. _Six quarters._ "

"Which is bad," Richie said teasingly. Eddie groaned again. He sat up, and Richie moved from propping him up to holding him at arm's length. He couldn't quite make himself let go all together. "I probably should fire them," he continued. "Steve made me hire them in the first place."

" _God,_ stop talking," Eddie said. "You say one more word and I'm not responsible for what I do."

"Fine," Richie said, and this time he did release him. Eddie flopped sideways onto the sofa like a pancake while Richie wandered off to the kitchen to investigate dinner. "What'd you do today, Eds?"

"Apart from detangling your fucking mess?" There was a pause. "My lawyer called. I have to be deposed."

He didn't say anything else. Richie returned to the doorway, hands full of random food he'd dug out of the fridge. Eddie looked more tired now—he was melting, spine first, into the couch cushions, face drawn. Richie spoke carefully, weighing his words. "You have to go to New York?"

"No, they can do it over Skype. I have to go to the LA office, though."

He ran a hand over his face, pausing, as he often did, on the faint catch of scar tissue on his cheek. Eddie didn't talk much about the divorce. He had asked Ben to serve Myra the papers and then stopped discussing it with anyone, except maybe Bill and Bev. His little divorce fraternity. The three of them were very secretive together. If Eddie had deep thoughts about leaving the woman he'd promised the rest of his life to, he shared it only with them. With Richie he talked about logistics, dates marked on calendars and retainers paid—when he talked about it all.

"When? Tomorrow?"

"No, a few weeks," Eddie said. He looked up and noticed the carton of eggs and old Tupperwares Richie had crammed into his arms. He frowned. "I didn't cook."

Richie would have laughed, had Eddie not still looked fragile. "I know. I told you, man, you don't always have to cook. We can get takeout or something. Come help me pick a restaurant."

"What, you're not going to whip something up out of eggs and old cauliflower rice?" Eddie said, but he climbed to his feet and joined Richie in the kitchen.

Richie kept a mountain of old takeout menus crammed into a drawer under the microwave—a relic from his days of living in perpetual bachelorhood. Some of the menus were sticky or crumpled, but every kind of known cuisine was represented. With a flourish, Richie fanned the stack of menus out like playing cards and offered them to Eddie. "Monsieur?"

Eddie rolled his eyes, but he gamely selected a few to peruse. "How was your day, by the way?"

"Fine. Show's going well," Richie said. "You like Ethiopian food, Eds? Let's get this place, it has this bread like a huge pancake you pour stew over, it's good."

It took them several attempts to settle on an Asian fusion place so that Eddie could order ramen and Richie could order dumplings _and_ green curry. Eddie sat at the barstool, playing around on his phone while Richie called and placed the order. He rolled his eyes when Richie made bad jokes and hissed, "Chicken, not pork!" as if Richie might have forgotten his order in the last thirty seconds. Mostly, though, he waited indulgently, swinging his bare foot against the barstool, listening but only halfway. Existing in Richie's orbit.

When Richie had offered his guest bedroom to Eddie, all those months ago in Derry Hospital, he hadn't planned what their life might look like. Actually he'd immediately regretted the offer—ten minutes after Eddie had accepted, Richie was hyperventilating in a single-occupancy bathroom. But he'd persevered. And now, six months later, Eddie was still here, still hanging out with him.

Eddie waited until Richie hung up to speak. "Rich."

"Yeah?"

"If you own the house," Eddie said, heel still banging gently against the barstool footrest, "Why haven't you painted?"

"Painted what? The walls? What's wrong with them?"

The walls were walls. Yes, there were holes in the bathroom walls but not, Richie thought, here in the kitchen. Although, how would he know? He'd missed the other holes. Sure, the backsplash was dingy, but the kitchen was neat and thoroughly sanitized, courtesy of Eddie. There was nothing wrong with the walls.

"Richie. They're off-white. And I'm pretty sure they were white originally."

He couldn't remember. He'd bought the house because it was a solid financial investment, and he needed somewhere to live. "The house has character."

Eddie snorted. "No it doesn't. You never even decorated."

"Hey, I have the toad."

Shuddering, Eddie slipped off the barstool. He took a second to steady himself, probably against a flicker of pain he refused to acknowledge. As he straightened he said, "The toad does not count."

"The toad is a friend," Richie said. They returned to the living room to await the delivery, settling side-by-side onto the couch. Eddie ceded Richie the spot he usually sat in when they kissed and wedged himself into the opposite corner. Richie decided not to draw any conclusions from that choice.

"You know what," Eddie said as he stretched, one leg thrown casually across the middle cushion so his ankle bumped Richie's knee, "I'm scared that one day the toad will be in my bed."

Well, now it absolutely _would_ be, someday. "Oh Eddie, you idiot," Richie said mournfully. "Why would you say that, huh?"

"I'm a glutton for punishment, I guess."

Richie, who felt the barely-there press of Eddie's socked foot burning a hole through his thigh, could sympathize.

"Seriously, though," Eddie said, picking up the loose thread of their conversation. "I mean, the bathroom has those holes. It wouldn't be that hard to paint. I could probably do it."

All at once Richie realized that the conversation had a purpose, which was this question. He looked at Eddie, sitting there in an attitude of forced casualness, while he tried to put his words together. His first instinctual answer was _no_. The bathroom didn't need to be painted, and Eddie sure as fuck didn't need to be the one to paint it.

But Eddie had volunteered. Eddie was staring at him, tongue tucked into the corner of his mouth. His foot was still against Richie's thigh. Eddie communicated his preferences primarily through giving Richie grief. Occasionally passive-agression. Richie, mystified, said nothing. Why the fuck did Eddie want to paint the bathroom? Surely the paint color wasn't _that_ ugly?

"Um," Richie said at last. "Would you have to clear it with your PT first?"

Eddie's expression darkened. " _No._ I can paint, Richie, it's not like running a marathon."

Richie wouldn't know. He tried again. "Well. I mean. I could pay somebody."

"No," Eddie said. "No way. You have to fix your finances, Richie, preferably _tomorrow_ , because I don't know if I can sleep knowing what I know now. No. I can paint. I have to spackle first, though."

There was no way his finances were that bad. Richie's financial advisors might have been lazy, but they weren't actively screwing him—if nothing else, Richie's credit cards still went through. But Eddie's jaw was set in a way that Richie recognized from childhood. _Don't make me bite you_ , it seemed to say.

"Spackle then paint," Richie said, neither agreeing nor denying.

Eddie narrowed his eyes. "You have no idea what spackle is."

"Literally who the fuck knows what spackle is, Eddie!"

Eddie did. They texted Stan, who also owned a house, to see if he did; of course he did. Ben did, too. Richie then refused to text any of the others because he sensed his argument was unlikely to win the day.

When the food arrived, Richie flipped on an old episode of _The Simpsons_ ; Eddie had never seen them, so the classics were brand-new to him. During commercial breaks, Eddie laid out some of the bigger holes in his financial planning. His investments were poorly chosen. He had too much in stocks and not enough in stable securities. His accountant seemed to be a general practitioner, not specialized in entertainment professionals, and had missed major deductions. And Eddie flat-out refused to let Richie hire Stan to replace his current accountant. "That's not the kind of accountant Stan is, and he's not working full-time yet, and besides. He lives in Georgia, dipshit," Eddie said.

In retaliation, Richie threw his chopsticks wrapper at Eddie's head.

There was no kissing. It was a profoundly unromantic evening of Richie quoting the lines along with the TV and Eddie cackling at his impressions. Just because _most_ of their evenings ended up with Richie on his back and Eddie's mouth on his didn't mean _all of them_ had to. Sometimes it was good to just be together, strictly platonically. Eddie was good company either way. It seemed unreal to Richie that he could know a person for most of his life and not get sick of them, but it hadn't happened yet. Maybe that was because he'd forgotten Eddie for so many years in the middle—but even then, Richie thought he'd loved Eddie without remembering him. It was either that or he'd been carrying an ache in his heart of uncertain origins for all those long, unhappy years.

He wondered if things had been similar for Ben—if a part of him had loved Bev in the intervening decades. He thought it might have been, but he didn't dare put words to the feeling and ask. Ben probably knew how he felt, anyway. It was probably obvious to everyone who'd been in the cavern. Richie barely remembered pulling Eddie from the sewers, but whatever had happened down there, he knew he couldn't have been subtle.

Richie turned to look at Eddie, as if to check that it hadn't been a dream. Eddie was still there. Mostly whole, mostly healthy, on Richie's sofa. His eyelids fluttered gently, and then, as Richie watched, his head nodded towards his chest. It wasn't surprising that he was drifting off; Eddie kept different, earlier hours from Richie, and it was almost eleven now. _The Simpsons_ reruns had given way to some cable drama, so he wasn't even missing anything. Maybe that was why there had been no kissing—Eddie was so tired he'd dozed off sitting upright, his ramen bowl sliding perilously close to the edge of his lap.

Before disaster could strike, Richie lifted the empty ramen bowl off Eddie's legs and slid it onto the table. He tried to be gentle, but the motion jarred Eddie out of sleep.

Eddie blinked, then yawned, eyes not quite open. "Time 'sit?"

"Ten fifty-three," Richie said. Eddie sighed. For a moment it seemed like he might let himself slide back into sleep, but then he stood. He reached for the dishes, but Richie waved him off. He was dead on his feet; Richie didn't mind cleaning up.

Before Eddie disappeared into the guest bedroom, he turned back. "Hey Richie," he said, "Thanks."

Richie, assuming he meant the takeout containers and the bag of trash balanced in his arms, shrugged. "Don't mention it, Spagheds."

He could hear Eddie sigh from across the room. "You ruined it," he said.

"Well yeah, Eduardo, that's my fucking job!" Richie called after him, and Eddie laughed, softly, then shut the door behind him.

+++

There were more colors of paint than Richie thought possible. Pink, green, cerulean, orange, burnt umber—just like the crayon, he marveled, scooping handfuls of paint chips out of the display and holding them together, a jumble of riotous shades that would all look terrible on the bathroom wall.

"Put that back," Eddie said, when he saw Richie eyeing the chartreuse. 

"You can't push the cart _and_ boss me around."

"Okay, try and fucking stop me," Eddie said. "You'll feel bad when I fall over though."

Frowning, Richie returned the paint chips to roughly their correct spots. "You're using the impaled card on me." Eddie hated to make any mention of the fact that he'd almost died last summer, but he was also not above manipulating Richie to get his own way.

"Is it working?"

Of course it was. Richie was putty in Eddie's hands, always had been. "It's not not working," he said, just to be contrary. Eddie smiled beatifically at him, and Richie's heart skipped a beat.

Even though it was his one day off this week, Richie had woken before nine and driven Eddie to a Lowe's. Eddie had offered to take a cab—Richie was working on the concept of Uber, but there were some lines that Eddie's aversion to germs could not cross—but Richie had waved him off. He would nap later, while Eddie was at PT, or go to bed early. He figured he needed to be here. Richie had given up trying to talk Eddie out of home improvement, but he could still come along and hoist the heavy paint cans into the cart for him.

He still didn't _get_ why Eddie was so insistent about painting. It wasn't his house. There was nothing tying Eddie to Richie's house; just because Richie had asked first didn't mean that Eddie was short on accommodation options. Ben had suggested his place, which came with the added bonus of Bev as an unofficial roommate. Bill had offered too, and he was just across town in his new place in Pacific Palisades. And Eddie had money of his own—he was still on reduced hours at work but his risk analyst job paid him serious fuck-you money. He could walk, now, and drive, albeit cautiously, and even climb stairs, so long as he went slowly and gripped the handrail tightly. If Eddie wanted to, he could find a bungalow and be out any time he liked.

It meant something that he was still here. It meant something that he was running his hands along the shelves of paint chips, tongue between his teeth, a look of deep concentration furrowing his eyebrows. If it wasn't three decades of love, that was okay.

It was still something.

Richie stood with his elbows propped on the end of the cart, gazing solemnly at Eddie, and consequently missed the words coming out of Eddie's mouth. "Huh?" he said, shaking his head to clear it of his romantic daydreams.

"I think gray." Eddie showed him a chip with three shades of gray, running from pale to kinda-pale. Richie took it gently from his fingers and held it up to the light.

"Gray?" he repeated, confused. 

"It's a neutral."

"Aren't all boring colors neutral?"

"I have no idea," Eddie said, shrugging. He took the paint chip back again and held it up to the fluorescents, just as Richie had done. Satisfied, he nodded. "But yeah, gray. I think that would be nice."

He had no room to argue and he knew this—he'd had six holes in his walls that he'd never even noticed, and he hadn't known spackle from wallpaper paste, and Eddie had nearly exploded when he'd suggested they could substitute packing tape for painter's tape. But still, he couldn't help himself. "Gray? You're sure?" he asked, deeply skeptical.

Eddie gave him a flat look as he tucked the paint chip into his pocket. "Look at what you're wearing," he said.

"What's wrong with this?" Richie said, spreading his arms. He was wearing one of his most regular button-down shirts; the pattern of interlocking squares was so faded as to be almost subtle. And his jeans were just black jeans. Sure, his shoes were pretty hideous, but Richie liked loud colors and needed a certain level of arch support. "This is how you tell me you don't like my clothes?"

"I don't like your clothes. You're forty-one years old and you dress like you're colorblind."

"Aw, Eddie my love," Richie said, following Eddie as he started wheeling the cart down the aisle, "You remembered how old I am."

Eddie pulled up short, right there in the middle of the aisle, and looked up at Richie with an expression of disgust. "I can't believe I came to California for you," he said, sounding fond despite his scowl.

"Me neither, Eds," Richie said, meaning it perhaps a little differently than Eddie did. "Me neither."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: passing mentions to richie’s dead dad; richie is in the closet and his manager is aware but pretty flippant about it; some mention of alcohol and medication but nothing detailed. also we will earn that explicit rating in future chapters.


	2. Circle Polished Nickel Knob, 1.12"

Richie had never written his own set before, but he was familiar with the construction of the object. The set started as words typed on paper; previously someone had handed it to Richie but now he was in charge of producing it. Previously the paper copy had been all the jokes, word-for-word, typed up and handed to him in a thick leather binder—an idiot-proof corpus of the entire set. Now that Richie was the one writing the jokes, the paper copy was a college-ruled notebook crammed with notes and crossed-out sections, symbols and squashed doodles. Richie knew the set by heart—he'd _written it_ , every word and punctuation mark—but he also needed to hold the Notebook in his hands.

Therein lay his problem. His third trial-run show was tonight, and the Notebook was nowhere to be found.

This was Eddie's fault; he was sure of it. Eddie had tidied last night. Richie had been out at a comedy club in Hollywood, "networking," and when he'd come home, the living room was spotless. The Notebook had been on the near end table before he'd gone out, and when he came home, Eddie was sleeping, the Notebook vanished.

It was now eleven in the morning, and Eddie had the _nerve_ to be taking a shower while Richie crawled around under the couch in search of his book. What was worse was that Richie had heard Eddie walking around downstairs before 7am, cracking the dishwasher and watching the TV on low. He usually found the muted sounds of Eddie in the early morning soothing; today he'd found it grating. He'd tossed and turned, fuming, for over an hour. Why couldn't Eddie be _quiet_. Why did he have to wake up and call Bev before the sun was even up.

Richie, dusty now from sweeping his hand underneath the couch, wriggled free and sat back on his heels. This wasn't fair. The Notebook was clearly not an ordinary book; Richie carried it around everywhere, its pages conspicuously jammed full of scrap paper, pages bent. Eddie _knew_ the Notebook was important, yet he'd hidden it somewhere. 

The show was eleven hours away, he reminded himself, shaking dust off his arms and stomach. Absolute worst case scenario, he had to leave by seven to make it to the club in time to gladhand all the right people. That gave him just under eight hours to find the Notebook. He willed himself to take deep breaths and to resist the urge to rip his hair out at the roots.

God knew his hairline couldn't take any further abuse.

He checked upstairs one last time, even though he _knew_ Eddie wouldn't have come up here. Eddie had only been upstairs a handful of times since moving in. During his first week in the house, Richie, overwhelmed that Eddie was _alive_ and on his couch, a part of his life again after so many years, had hidden from him. Misinterpreting this sudden reticence, Eddie had dragged himself up the stairs to bang on Richie's door. Then he'd nearly fainted. The night had ended in frustrated crying and yelling, but Eddie had gotten his way in the end: Richie stopped avoiding him. Since then, Eddie had made his way up a few more times, to prove to himself he _could_ , but very rarely. 

He certainly wouldn't have let himself into Richie's room to stash the Notebook somewhere. That was a line Eddie wouldn't cross.

No, Richie decided, coming downstairs again, it had to be on the first floor. He rescanned each room in turn: kitchen, dining room, living room, garage. He checked between the couch cushions; he pawed through the neat pile of mail Eddie left for him on the kitchen counter. After all that, Eddie _still_ hadn't emerged from the bathroom, and for some reason, this was the absolute last straw for Richie.

He didn't knock on the bathroom door. He pounded on it. "What the fuck are you doing in there, Eddie?"

"Dude," came Eddie's affronted reply, half-muffled over the bathroom fan, "I'm getting dressed."

Richie thought poisonous thoughts about his water bill and the California drought, pacing in the narrow spit of hallway that connected Eddie's bedroom and the bathroom to the rest of the house. This was intolerable. It was _one_ notebook. Eddie must have stashed it in the Marianas Trench or something, because Richie couldn't find it. 

The door opened. Eddie stepped out, immaculately dressed in suit and tie. It was a beautiful suit, gray and tailored to every inch of him; the only flaw in presentation was the spot of dampness at Eddie's collar as water ran from his hair to his throat.

Richie felt like he'd taken uppercut to the stomach. "Hey. What the fuck man?"

"What?"

"Why are you dressed like that?" Richie demanded, brain operating independently from his mouth. Eddie looked—but why? Halfway through the day? Eddie wore sweatpants while working from home; on the rare occasions he had to Skype in for a meeting, he threw on a collared shirt and sports coat. He refused to even dig out his slacks, let alone an entire suit. "And why aren't you working?"

"You my boss now, Richie?"

"No, I'm just the guy who's going fucking crazy because you put everything away last night, and now I can't find my book."

Eddie blinked at him. "What book?"

"My notebook, what the fuck?"

"Oh, your comedy notebook?" Shrugging, Eddie pushed past him, which pissed Richie off more. There was a spicy, clean smell rolling off him, not strong but enough to make Richie's heartbeat spike. "I put it away last night."

"It's not my comedy notebook," Richie said rudely. Eddie was leafing through the piles on the coffee table that survived Richie's ransacking. He didn't even _know_ where he'd put it. Richie felt like his skin was too tight, like he was going to burst and splatter wetly all over the neat living room. "It's my notebook for my _job_. Just because you apparently took a vacation from yours doesn't mean I did."

Eddie froze. His expression was flat, his jaw tensed. "What the fuck is your problem this morning?"

"I don't know. Why the fuck are you moving my stuff around, instead of, I don't know, painting the bathroom, like you said you would?"

It had been most of a month since they had gone to Lowe's and bought paint and brushes; since then, Eddie had spackled and sanded and applied a constellation of blue painter's tape to the walls, but he hadn't painted.

"I've been busy, dickhead," Eddie said, voice tight.

"Doing what? Not working, obviously. What super secret errands are you doing in a suit in the middle of the day?"

"What the fuck? Since when do I have to clear my schedule with you?"

"I don't know!" Richie snapped. He was on the verge of exploding over nothing, but he couldn't stop himself. "Maybe when you told me you were gonna paint and you still haven't fucking touched it! Like, Jesus, Eddie, are you gonna do it or not?"

For a beat, Eddie said nothing. Then he tossed the pile of papers he'd been sorting through back onto the coffee table; it landed with a loud _smack_ and then slid, old magazines and junk mail skittering off the polished surface and onto the floor. Then he marched to the bookshelf, looked for one second and yanked Richie's notebook out. "Here's your fucking notebook, Richie. Dick."

The _bookshelf_. Richie hadn't checked there, because it was a notebook, not a book, and the shelves were mostly bare, apart from the toad. It had slipped his mind to look there, so of course that's where it was. Eddie, still furious, slapped the Notebook into Richie's hands and then, before Richie could find words, stomped to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

Richie let him go. He turned over the Notebook in his hands, waiting for the magical sense of peace and preparation to wash over him. Unfortunately, nothing happened. The Notebook imparted no wisdom. As he rotated it, a crumpled Starbucks receipt slid out through the pages, wafting gently to the floor.

He had the vague sense that he had fucked up, somehow.

He went upstairs, the Notebook clutched in his impotent hands.

Actually, he reasoned, as he tossed the Notebook onto the bed and started pacing, it was _Eddie_ who was wrong. Eddie was the one who'd come in and started tidying things up with no care for Richie's systems. Richie's cleanliness may have left a lot to be desired, but he could always find what he needed. And Eddie had _said_ he'd paint—insisted on it, actually. The holes in the wall had been unsightly but truly, the bathroom didn't even need to be painted. That was Eddie's pet project, not a necessity.

Warming to his theme now, Richie flung himself on the bed to stare up at the ceiling. If Eddie hadn't looked so unexpectedly good in that suit, he reasoned, he wouldn't have been caught off guard. And if Eddie had just said, "Oh, I shelved the Notebook, sorry about that," maybe Richie wouldn't have flown off the handle. And if Richie had just told Eddie he'd hire someone to paint the bathroom, then _none of this would have happened._

It was possible he was overthinking this.

While he lay there, fuming, alternately picking up the Notebook to scan his notes and then tossing it back down again to pick over the fight with Eddie once more, there came the distinct sound of the front door opening. The hinges squeaked, loud enough that Richie heard it, even upstairs. Richie paused, Notebook opened, and listened. The front door closed. For a long moment, nothing happened, and then came the gentle _roll-click_ of the driveway gate opening.

Richie put the Notebook down and headed to the top of the stairs. "Eddie?" he called, into the empty space.

No answer. He went back to his bedroom, looking out the en-suite window to the gravel driveway below. A cab was idling at the curb while Eddie, still dressed in his suit, slid into the backseat.

What the fuck?

Eddie left the house sometimes. He wasn't a _recluse_ —just a grumpy introvert whose friends were scattered across the country. It wasn't unusual for him to go out in the middle of the day, if he needed lemongrass or a new pack of athletic socks. But he always let Richie know. Even when Richie was out with Paulette or working somewhere, Eddie would send him a text. When they were both home together, Eddie would call upstairs, voice ringing off the vaulted ceiling. _Back in an hour, going to therapy!_ Richie would come to the landing and say, _Bye Spagheds, stay out of trouble out there._

There was a terrible buzzing under Richie's skin. He checked his phone, just in case—but no messages in the last day, not from Eddie. Paulette had sent a reminder about the show tonight, and his mother had sent him something that began with the letters _Fwd_ ; Richie ignored both. He crossed back to the stairs, double-checking.

Eddie did not reappear. And he didn't text, either.

Annoyed, Richie went back to his bedroom and slammed the door. "Fuck that," he said, aloud to no one. "I have a show, which I actually _need_ to be ready for."

The empty room neither agreed nor disagreed. 

"Fuck," Richie said, pressing his fingers into his eye sockets until sharp bursts of color flared.

The fact that Eddie had vanished did not change the reality of the show, now little more than ten hours away. He had routines for the day-of. At home, he'd grab lunch somewhere, go to the beach for a while if the weather was nice, and make it to the venue early enough to catch the openers. On the road, he'd sub beach for local tourist attraction, or anywhere busy enough that the crowd's chatter would drown out his own thoughts. Richie did that now—he dressed, took himself out for a burger and a side salad, and went down to the beach.

It was a beautiful day, even as the sun shocked the colors out of the scene. Richie sat on a bench along the parking lot, watching kids and joggers run up and down the sand. People strolled past him; Richie caught snatches of conversation as strangers went by. "I was thinking about you this morning," said a tall woman into her cellphone, followed by two old men arguing impassionedly, "No, the _Knicks_ this year. Fuck the Nets, never trust a Jersey team—"

Richie closed his eyes. The breeze whipped down the shore, yanking at his hair and the collar of his shirt. He was bombarded with voices, accents and rising inflections and vocabulary choices. Normally, Richie could let the chatter wash over him and iron flat the wrinkles in his brain, but not today. It wasn't the show. God knew he was nervous, but it wasn't the show. It was Eddie.

Why had Eddie just _left_. In Bangor, they'd been together almost all the time in the short-term apartment, Eddie doing his PT and Richie squabbling with Steve over email. Even when Richie had returned to LA and Mike and Eddie had gone to New York together to clear out the condo, Richie hadn't had to wonder. He knew they'd go to the condo, the hotel, the UPS store around the corner from Eddie's old place. He'd had the addresses written down, and Mike had sent him a barrage of encouraging texts:

_Eddie owns a LOT of suits, man!_

_Eddie put on a Gin Blossoms CD and I think he might be dancing._

_Now he's making me watch baseball, wtf._

And then Eddie had gotten on a plane, trembling and exhausted and emotionally overloaded. When he was less shell-shocked, he started venturing out again, hanging out with Bill and catching cabs to his various medical appointments. But he always told Richie where he was going. "PT tomorrow," he'd say grimly, and Richie would make a joke to take his mind off it.

Richie checked his watch. It had been four hours, and he had no idea where Eddie was. It was the longest span of time where he didn't know Eddie's location since he'd put Eddie in the back of the ambulance in Derry and watched it drive away. 

The beach wasn't working. Richie gave up, went home and watched TV. He answered his mom's text message, a baffling chain message about spreading positivity. He took a shower and shaved and carefully scraped his hair around his head, as if to camouflage the fact that he was forty-one and looked it. He wondered where the hell Eddie had gone in that suit. His company had an office in LA; he could have gone there. Or a job interview?

To look at a new apartment? Richie clutched the sink for support. Eddie wouldn't just _move out_ , would he?

It was a fight, he told himself. People had them. Eddie was rude and snippy and persnickety, obsessed with cleanliness and hypocritical and easily offended, but he wouldn't just _leave_ Richie without a word.

Still, Richie had to defy his urge to text the other Losers, begging for Eddie's whereabouts. It would be too pathetic to reveal that he had lost Eddie, let alone why Eddie had left in the first place. And besides, Richie didn't want them to have any more ammunition against him. They probably knew how Richie felt about Eddie; Richie didn't have to go around acting like a lovesick teenager, wondering where the boy he liked had gone without him. He'd _been_ a lovesick teenager. Over the same boy, no less. He did not need his friends connecting the dots there.

Eddie still wasn't back by seven, but Richie went to the venue anyway. Paulette met him in the green room twenty minutes before his time slot, as he sat there, flipping through the Notebook and taking shallow, shaky breaths. "You having a panic attack there, kiddo?"

Richie whipped his head up to glare at her. Kiddo his ass—Paulette was five years younger than him, easy. She smirked, though, and Richie wondered if she'd done it on purpose. "Why am I doing this," he said, dabbing at the sweat pooling in the pits of his elbows. The Notebook hadn't helped him _at all_. He'd been a dick to Eddie for no reason, and Eddie had disappeared, and Richie was regretting every career move he'd ever made.

"Because you're funnier than your writers were," Paulette said calmly. "The funnier you are, the more tickets you sell. The more tickets you sell, the more you can pay me."

Annoyingly, that made sense. "Oh, well, if it gets _you_ paid," he said in the snottiest voice he could manage.

Paulette smiled, tapped her knuckles against the door frame. Knock on wood. "You'll be fine, Rich. Fifteen minutes."

That was probably true, but Richie kept pacing in tight circles around the green room. The comic who was on before him was killing it—he could hear the laughs through the walls, the high-pitched sound of laughter rising and falling in counterpoint to the amplified bass of the comic's voice. He wished he'd been less of a dick to Eddie. He hoped Eddie still liked him, still liked living with him.

His phone buzzed. For a moment, he was seized with blind hope. He thumbed to accept the call before even looking at the display. It was, to his disappointment, not Eddie. But then his disappointment was overwhelmed with surprise.

"Stan?" he said, standing up so fast his chair wobbled and nearly tipped. "Holy shit, what time is it in Atlanta?"

"It's after midnight," Stan said. He yawned even as he spoke, and Richie heard the sound of water running. Richie did the math—it was nearly one in the morning in Atlanta. "I'm sorry, I meant to call earlier, we had dinner with Patty's parents and it ran late. But I wanted to wish you good luck on your show."

"Really? You remembered that?" Richie had mentioned it in passing, weeks ago, on their last call; he didn't like talking about work because work freaked him out. Badly. But Stan had remembered. Stan had probably written it down somewhere, in neat penmanship. "That's really nice, Stan."

"You nervous?"

"Not facing a killer clown nervous, but, yeah," Richie admitted. His palms were sweating. His heartbeat was going a million miles an hour. There were less than ten minutes til the show started. This was only his third show—people still knew him as Trashmouth. Maybe they'd get up and leave when he came on stage. Maybe Eddie would move out tonight and be gone by the time Richie came back. Wincing, he shook his head to clear it of those awful images. "Pretty freaked, yeah."

"You're going to do amazing. You really are, you're very funny," Stan said.

It was like a guard rail, hearing Stan say that. Richie still felt like he was at the top of a very tall, very rickety staircase wearing roller skates, but now he had something to cling onto. If the show went badly, he would still have something at the end of it. Stan thought he was funny; all the Losers did. Even if he went on stage and crapped out terribly--and he might, Richie was morbidly aware that he was capable of crashing and burning--Stan would still think he was funny. Richie did not relax, not really, but some of the tightness in his chest eased.

In the background of the call, Patty said something; Stan's voice, muffled, answered her. To Richie, he said, "Listen, I know you have to get out there, but call me this weekend, okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Stan," Richie said, swallowing against a lump in his throat. "Give Patty a kiss for me."

"Not a chance," Stan said dryly. "Remember to call me this weekend, Rich." And then he hung up the phone. 

Richie put his phone away, smiling despite the nerves that hadn't died away. Maybe he'd send Stan and Patty a puzzle this weekend. Just because.

A runner came to fetch him. "Mr. Tozier? You're on in five," she said, clutching her clipboard. Richie let go of the Notebook, stood up and followed her. The last comic was onstage winding down her act. The crowd seemed less threatening from backstage, the lights smudging the individual faces into a single mass. Someone handed him a microphone. The comic onstage took a bow amid thunderous applause, and then Richie was walking out onto the stage while someone said, _And now, our surprise guest for the evening: you think you know him, you love to hate him, the Trashmouth himself..._

"Oh Jesus Christ," he said, before he could stop himself. "Is that my introduction? What the fuck? I swear to God, I was just sitting in the green room, I don't know what the fuck I did to piss the MC off so badly."

The crowd laughed. It was a solid burst of laughter, surprised and not outraged. No one got up; no one started heckling him. They just sat there, staring up at him, confused but not alarmed, wary but not suspicious. They would give him a chance, at least. Richie's stomach unclenched the slightest degree.

"Hey," he said, staring out into the packed crowd, the indistinct faces staring up at him. His heart was still jack-hammering in his chest. His palms slipped on the microphone, but he smiled anyway. "I'm Richie Tozier. Formerly known as Trashmouth. Don't walk out yet, I swear to fucking God it's all uphill from here."

+++

Richie stayed until one in the morning and then peeled away from the bar, slinking out to his car. The show was ongoing, but the quality of the comics had tipped sharply downhill. When Richie left, some wet-behind-the-ears baby comedian was rambling through a joke about politics; Richie slid out before people started heckling.

On the other side of the show, things looked less terrible. He'd done fine; Paulette had been happy and the booker had been enthusiastic about having him back. The night had been a success.

Richie had gone, briefly, to therapy in his twenties, during a period when he was too depressed to get out of bed or shower. From this brief sojourn, he'd learned the word _catastrophizing._ Catastrophizing was when he imagined the worst possible outcome of every situation. The doctor said this could be a symptom of depression, which annoyed Richie, because he hadn't paid a $70 copay to be told he was depressed. He'd stopped going because the pills she prescribed killed his sex drive and didn't even make him happy, but he'd held onto the term. He had been catastrophizing this morning. The Notebook didn't have magical powers; he didn't need it to perform well; Eddie putting it out of sight was not proof of his bad character and the cruelty and indifference of the world generally. Things had turned out fine.

Unfortunately, this meant that Richie had been a giant and utter asshole. He didn't want to be one—that was the whole point of this career pivot—so he was going to have to apologize. He'd quit therapy before learning how to make genuine apologies, so he was winging it here. Eddie would be asleep now; he had the rest of the night to figure it out. In the morning, he would find the right words and tell Eddie how felt, and everything would be okay again.

 _If_ Eddie came home. A cruel part of himself taunted that Eddie could be on a plane back to the east coast by now.

Catastrophizing again, he scolded himself.

The city was still as he drove. His neighborhood was residential, and at this hour the quiet was lush. To his relief, the outside light was on as he pulled into the driveway. Richie hadn't flipped the switch when he left this afternoon—that was Eddie's handiwork. Inside, Eddie's sneakers were in their usual spot. Sighing, Richie tossed his keys onto the console table. Of course Eddie hadn't just _left_.

Comforted, he meant to go straight to bed, or at least to the shower to scrub the lingering sweat off his body, but instead, he paused at the foot of the stair. The downstairs bathroom light was on. That wasn't unusual—surely Eddie got up to take a piss in the night now and then—but Richie was struck with a terrible fear that Eddie was not just awake but being _kept up_ by what Richie had said to him.

Instead of heading upstairs, he sat on the couch, glancing at the clock as he did so. Eddie would be out any minute now.

He wasn't. Long minutes ticked by, and then it was quarter to two, and Eddie hadn't made a sound in the bathroom. Richie's stomach contracted nervously—what if Eddie had _collapsed_ , what if he'd had a seizure like the terrible one he'd had in the hospital, what if Eddie was dying in there—and he stood and crossed the room before he realized he was doing it.

There were no sounds of distress behind the bathroom door. Richie resisted the urge to slam his fist into it; he'd done that once today. Instead, he cleared his throat and knocked two knuckles against the woodgrain. "Eddie? You good in there?"

"Fuck off, Richie," Eddie said. He sounded in good health—if anything, he sounded annoyed to be bothered. Richie, baffled, jiggled the door handle. "It's locked, asshole!" Eddie called again; Richie wedged his face against the doorjamb. At this distance, there was a faint but recognizable chemical smell, and Richie could guess what the source was.

"Eddie—Eddie, are you painting?" he said incredulously.

"Fuck _off,_ Richie."

"Eddie are you painting at two in the morning with the door locked? Or are you just huffing the fumes?" His question was greeted with a chilly silence. Undeterred, Richie rattled the handle again. "I'll kick the door in, man, you could be passed out in there."

"It's paint, not glue."

As Richie debated whether he even _could_ kick the door in, it opened instead. On the other side stood Eddie, bleary-eyed, hair a mess, wearing his rattiest sweatpants and not the beautiful gray suit. There was paint on his shirt. He looked, if possible, worse than Richie felt.

He was absolutely painting Richie's bathroom at two in the morning.

"Can you not huff paint?" Richie asked, nonsensically. "You look fucking terrible, by the way."

Eddie squinted at him. Flecks of paint dotted his face, too, smeared from the sharp angle of his jawbone down the side of his neck. "You look sweaty," he countered.

"I had a show."

"I figured. That's why you were being such an asshole."

Richie nodded. He was trying to peer over Eddie's shoulder, but Eddie had the doorway blocked. His transformation, from neatly dressed in that suit to this, scruffy and covered in paint, didn't make sense to Richie. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. Richie tried not to stare at the tired, downwards pull of his mouth. "You left. I didn't know where you were."

"You were being an asshole," Eddie said flatly.

"I know. Fuck. I know. I wanted to apologize, but you were gone, and then I felt like a fucking idiot trying to apologize over text..." Richie broke off, shrugging. He felt silly standing in the doorway. "Can we go sit down?"

"No," Eddie said, but his tone was softer than his words. "I'm halfway done. If I stop now it'll streak."

"Can I at least come in?"

For a beat, Eddie considered him, but then he gave way and allowed Richie to enter the bathroom. The bathroom, which had been pristinely taped and unpainted for weeks, was now gray on two and a half walls. Whistling, Richie turned in a circle, admiring Eddie's work. "It looks good. It looks really good, Eds. The gray is surprisingly not dark."

Eddie turned away to pick up his foam roller, but Richie caught his small smile in the mirror. "So you just wanted to apologize, or are you actually going to do it?"

"Ooh, got me there, Eds," Richie said, high-pitched and nasal. Eddie's eyes flicked up and met his in the mirror; chastened, Richie scrubbed a hand against his neck and the dried sweat there. "I'm sorry," he tried again. "I was an asshole. It's not an excuse, but I had my show and I felt like shit. I know you didn't hide it."

Saying nothing, Eddie dipped the roller into the tray of paint he'd prepared and then began to apply paint in meticulous straight lines. "How was the show?"

"Ah. Good. I guess."

"Where was it?" he asked. Richie told him, for all the good it did; Eddie didn't know any comedy clubs in this city or any other. But Eddie just nodded, focusing on the paint. As he worked the dingy white disappeared under new, soft gray. "Did people like it? It's not the old stuff."

"No. It's the new stuff. Me being relatable. Or relatable to the kind of people I want to like my stuff, I guess. There's definitely guys who hate their girlfriends and tell moderately racist jokes out there," Richie said, laughing sourly. Eddie nodded again, attention on the paint, and Richie wanted him to turn and _look_ at him so badly he felt like he might combust. "Eds," he said, hands in his pockets, "I'm kind of dying here."

"That's the paint fumes," Eddie said, but he put the foam roller down in its tray.

He turned to look at Richie. He started to say one thing, stopped and then sighed. "I had my deposition today."

Richie was caught between several emotional responses—elation, surprise, jealousy, annoyance. Eddie hadn't told him that was happening today, Richie would have _absolutely_ written that down. But Eddie, the relentlessly private motherfucker, hadn't said boo since that night they'd ordered in Asian food. Unless he'd told Bev or maybe _Bill_ about it, all while Richie was stumbling around, hoping he hadn't left the state.

Richie took a breath. And then he said, "You are such an asshole! You held onto that all day? The fucking moral high ground, outta nowhere! Now I look like the biggest douchebag in the universe."

Startled, Eddie laughed. "Because you are, Richie," he said, but his laughter was already fading. He rubbed a hand against his jaw, catching on both the paint and the stubble there. "It was... I committed perjury. Her lawyer asked why I went to Maine. Couldn't figure out a way to say, 'To fight a killer clown in a sewer.' And he really pushed me on the whole collapsing house story."

"What does Maine have to do with your divorce?"

"Nothing," Eddie said. He slumped against the sink, more exhausted than ever. "She wants to punish me for leaving."

"Fuck her," Richie snapped, full of venom, but Eddie, looking pained, shook his head.

"Don't."

It was impossible to tell what Eddie felt for Myra. Eddie was not in love with her—he'd made that clear, when he'd awoken after surgery high as a kite on morphine, shit-talking her and their entire marriage with opioid-fueled abandon. And of course there was the fact that Eddie was _here_ , three thousand miles away from her, kissing _Richie_ in what was clearly either an elaborate fuck-you to her or else a complicated psychosexual... thing. But Eddie wouldn't talk about her or the marriage he'd abandoned.

Richie got it, though. It wasn't like he was open and honest about his maelstrom of feelings, so he supposed he couldn't resent Eddie for his refusal to share, either.

"If it makes you feel better," Richie said, "I killed a guy. Which, I don't know how many years that is, but it's gotta be more than perjury. We can be roommates in jail."

The smile returned to Eddie's face. "You killed Bowers in Maine, I committed perjury in New York. We'll have to be pen pals in jail."

Pen pals sounded like a poor substitute for having Eddie around; he had barely survived being apart from Eddie for a single afternoon. Besides, prison didn't sound like his style. Richie had gotten used to soft mattresses and his fancy little car in his old age. And ever since Eddie had moved in, Richie's house had been full of good things: home-cooked dinners, evenings spent curled together on the couch, Eddie's sleepy face peering over his computer screen in the mornings. Richie couldn't give all that up.

He was going to have to, when Eddie decided to move on, but until then, Richie wouldn't do anything to jeopardize their life together.

"Eds. Seriously. You okay?" he asked. Eddie was still smiling but it seemed paper-thin, liable to crack.

"Who the fuck knows." Eddie shrugged and reached for the roller again. "You feeling good after your show?"

"Basically. They want me back, and they want to advertise me, not just inflict me on the unsuspecting public."

Eddie's smile turned genuine. "That's awesome, Rich."

Feeling warm, Richie ducked his head. "Thanks, Eds."

"And I'm sorry I put your notebook away."

"Man, don't even," Richie said heavily. "I overreacted. You're a good roommate, you know. And not just because you're painting my disgusting-colored bathroom."

"But I said I'd do it," Eddie argued. "I should have done it days ago."

"Well, you don't have to. If you're busy or you've got divorce shit to do, or, hell, even if you don't want to do it. It's fine, Eddie. Even if you stopped painting, and cleaning, and cooking dinner all the time," Richie said. It was important that Eddie know this. "I just—I like having you around, Eds."

Richie would have taken Eddie in any form. He would have stayed in Bangor, or gone to New York, or let Eddie take the master while he slept on the couch. The fact that Eddie was here, cooking, painting, rearranging Richie's money—that was extra. That was gravy.

Instead of answering, Eddie kept painting. Every stroke was precise, despite the painter's tape he'd laid down to hem the paint in its proper place. There was no skill inherent in the gesture—just patience. He moved slowly, retracing his work so that the lines wouldn't all run in one direction. As he worked the dirty off-white slowly disappeared under the new, soft gray.

Richie, mesmerized, could have watched until he fell asleep standing upright, but he yawned, big enough to crack his jaw and draw Eddie's attention. "I'm almost done," he said, giving Richie a knowing look.

"Yeah," Richie said. "I know. I should go to bed." Or at least shower. He scrubbed a hand over his bristly jaw but didn't move. He didn't want to. "We're good, right, Eddie?"

Eddie paused, looked at him, his expression unreadable. "Yeah, Rich. We're good."

He wanted to kiss Eddie good night. His brain, half-asleep already, demanded it—Eddie was here, as tired as Richie felt, and every tender part of him wanted to press an absent kiss to Eddie's mouth on his way out the door. But he didn't want to answer questions. He didn't want Eddie to pull back or, God forbid, say something like, _we only do that when it doesn't mean anything_. So Richie said "Good night," and left the room without touching Eddie at all. 

He reached the second-to-last stair before Eddie called, "Hey, wait up."

Filled with sudden and irrational hope, Richie paused, turned. Eddie came to a stop at the foot of the stairs, looking up at him. Heart pounding, Richie met him there on the bottom step.

He was too tall, even more so than usual, but Eddie didn't seem to mind as he reeled Richie in. There was paint on his face, and Richie thought he tasted it on the corner of Eddie's mouth. It was still good, though. Eddie kissed him softly, without an end goal. Just their mouths brushing together in the silvery darkness on the bottom stair.

Eddie pulled back first. "Good night, Rich," he said. Then he kissed Richie again, feather-light, on the corner of his mouth, before going back into the bathroom and closing the door.

+++

A few days later, Richie emerged from the bathroom, whistling cheerfully and wiping his wet hands on the thighs of his jeans. "You know what, Eddie Spaghetti, that gray is growing on me."

Eddie, sitting at the dining room table with his back to Richie, whipped his head around to glare at him. "You said you liked the gray, asshole."

"But it's still growing on me. Every day, I like it just a little bit more."

In the end, Eddie had applied two coats before he pronounced the bathroom finished. Richie could have hired someone and had it painted in a day, but he had to admit that Eddie had done a good job. His obsession with detail _did_ pay off sometimes. The shade was dark enough that it hid smudges, but light enough that the small bathroom still felt airy. The most unexpected advantage was how happy it had made Eddie. Days later, Richie still caught him looking over at the bathroom door, a pleased, private smile on his face.

"Most importantly," Eddie said, as he turned back to his computer, "The holes are gone."

"Most importantly it doesn't smell like an oil spill fucked an industrial fan in there anymore, but yeah, the holes being gone is nice, too."

Spluttering, Eddie slammed his computer shut. He kept his laptop muted when he wasn't on a call—there had been a slight mishap when Eddie first started teleworking, and everyone in the New York office had heard Richie singing tuneless hair metal ballads at the top of his lungs—but he was still paranoid. Richie enjoyed seeing him turn pink and slice at the air with his hands. "You're an animal," Eddie hissed.

"Only in bed, baby," Richie said, and then regretted it when Eddie's blush deepened to crimson.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Richie."

"What? I've definitely said worse," Richie said. He wasn't sure that that was actually a defense.

"You're so—" Eddie closed his eyes and shook his head. "You're so annoying, do you know that?"

"Yeah, but you knew that before you moved in," Richie said. He felt itchy, unsettled, as Eddie continued to make faces at him. Leaning his weight onto his elbows on the back of the dining room chair, he tried to look jaunty and carefree. "Seriously, Eddie? All the shit I say, _that's_ what gets you?"

"No, it's not that. It's just—" he said, and pushed his chair back. He seemed nervous. Actually, he seemed frazzled. Richie now regretted that dumb sex joke more than anything in his whole life, if it made Eddie look like _this_. "I got something—for you. Well, sort of. And if it's stupid I don't want to talk about it anymore, it was just an idea I had."

With that, Eddie disappeared into the guest room. Richie remained rooted to the spot, wondering what the hell had just happened.

"Eds?" he called.

"I was gonna show you this," Eddie called back from the other room, "But then you said that thing about the oil spill, and I remembered that you're disgusting and I thought maybe I shouldn't. But I'm going to anyway." He reemerged with something in his hands. He held it like a baby bird, cupped in his hands, shielded from Richie's sight. Had Eddie bought him a _pet_? "So, the bathroom looks better," he said, "And I didn't have any trouble painting it, so I was thinking—and we don't have to, if you hate the idea, but I'm still on half-time at work, so it's not like I don't have the hours in a day—"

"Eddie," Richie interrupted. "Where is this going."

Eddie took a deep breath and unclasped his hands. In them lay a small silver door knob. "I want to paint the kitchen," he said. "And maybe replace the cabinets."

"What?" Richie said, dumbfounded. "The cabinets? You're going to do carpentry?"

"No, you order them from Home Depot, dipshit," Eddie said, rolling his eyes. "Although Ben says that building a simple cabinet is not that difficult."

Richie ignored the last sentence because it would make him fully crazy if he pictured Eddie with a saw and lumber. Instead, he stared down at the piece of hardware in Eddie's hand. The knob was silvery metal, a perfect circle with a slight beveled edge that caught the light. It was simply made but somehow ornate, too; maybe it was the polished gleam. Eddie's hands remained slightly cupped around it, like he was afraid it would roll away. Like it was something delicate, or valuable.

"You wanna redo the kitchen?" Richie said skeptically.

"Yeah, I do."

" _Why._ "

Painting a bathroom was one thing—one deeply unnecessary thing—but this?

Eddie shrugged. "We deserve to live somewhere nice? I don't know, man."

Maybe it was like the cooking. Eddie's ex had never let him paint or picking out furniture, and now he was getting it out of his system. Richie had never seen the condo, but Mike said it was covered in embroidered pillows and ceramic knickknacks. Maybe that was it—Eddie was forty years old and had never gotten to decorate before. Now he was looking for a chance to try it, and Richie, conveniently, owned an ugly house.

Now that he had a plausible explanation to cling to, Richie relaxed. He took hold of Eddie's wrist and tipped it; the doorknob rolled into Richie's outstretched palm. It was warm, holding in the heat from Eddie's skin. Richie peered at it, scrutinizing its fine edges.

"You're saying my house doesn't look nice?" he joked.

"I'm saying your house doesn't look decorated," Eddie said earnestly. "Let me do this, Rich."

Stalling for time, he nodded at the hardware in his palm. "Did you buy more of these?"

"Oh. Yeah," Eddie said. "I thought, if I replaced the cabinet pulls first, and if we didn't hate the way it looks..."

Sooner or later Eddie would realize that Richie was powerless in the face of his sincere requests. Richie would let him replace the cabinet. Hell, Richie would let him redo any room in the house, if it made him happy. He _would_ keep trying to persuade Eddie to hire a professional, but he wouldn't stop him.

"Just tell me," Richie said, "Is this a therapy thing? Or is this something you and Bill are doing, some kind of divorce support thing?"

"Bill and I don't do that. We do normal shit. We go on walks."

"Sounds awful," Richie said, earning him a laugh. Richie handed him back the knob. Eddie took it but continued to hold it, loosely, in his hand. It _was_ pretty, Richie supposed—for a piece of hardware. "I guess it's okay. If you wanna rip the kitchen apart, you be my guest. I can afford it."

"No," Eddie said. Richie eyeballed him over the top of his glasses, unimpressed, and Eddie scowled back. "You won't let me pay rent!"

"I am not your landlord, Eddie." Richie was revolted by the very idea. "I don't need your money."

"Great, I'm not giving you any. I'm giving it to the Home Depot."

"You are the stubbornest shit alive." Richie could only marvel at him. Here was Richie, offering him his house as a sandbox to play in, and Eddie was offended because he wanted to foot the bill as well? It was maddening. Eddie had always been like this, always loudly insisting on the correct way to do things and getting offended when Richie did things his own way. Richie had never been in love with anyone else, so he didn't know if being concurrently annoyed and fond was normal. It couldn't be—how could anybody manage with this much feeling bursting out of them, every minute of the day? Richie wanted to argue with Eddie _and_ give him everything he ever wanted, both at once, and he could barely function around it.

"Yeah," Eddie said, unrepentant, "I am."

"Fine," Richie said. He was acceding to the inevitable. That was all. "You can redo the kitchen and pay for it, too. Anything else? You wanna take my car apart or some bullshit?"

Eddie's expression turned sly. "Actually, yes," he said. "Remember how you let me look at your finances and they're a fucking cesspool? I've been researching accountants, and I've put together a list of ones I think you should consider hiring. Do you want to take a look?"

Richie groaned and put his head in both his hands.

"I'm taking that as a yes," Eddie said, extremely smugly, and got up to fetch the list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: Richie has a _lot_ of anxiety about his show and lashes out over it; discussion of therapy, depression and medication; brief mentions of Eddie having a seizure and collapsing earlier in his recovery but nothing happens onscreen; jokes about huffing paint; Eddie and Myra's marriage was bad and he experiences a lot of guilt about it; and Richie is a jokey asshole about literally murdering a guy.


	3. Canyon Creek Pine Wood Frame, 16" x 20"

The microwave beeped; Richie got up and fetched his dinner. It was a little before seven. Eating took him twenty minutes. After eating, he took the plate to the sink and scrubbed it clean by hand. He wished he'd dirtied more dishes, but all he'd done was dump leftover pasta on a plate. The chore was done quickly enough, and so Richie, for lack of anything better to do, went to watch TV.

Eddie was not late. He was neither late nor missing—Richie knew where he'd gone, to physical therapy—but Richie was _bored_. The house was too quiet. TV seemed uninteresting, and he couldn't be bothered to review the notes Paulette had sent him. He could, he figured, do as Eddie had asked and research kitchen redesign, but that wasn't fun without Eddie. Countertops, hinges, farmhouse sink versus more traditional models: it was meaningless to Richie without Eddie to interpret and carefully consider all options. Instead, Richie stared in the vicinity of the television set, waiting.

Seven-thirty came and went, then eight o' clock.

Had living alone always been this _dull_? Richie had lived alone for a decade, but he couldn't remember feeling so antsy in his own company for a few hours. PT had to be almost over by now. Sometimes Eddie's sessions ran late—Richie sensed that Eddie was trying to win at PT—but he was usually home by seven-thirty. Too preoccupied to pay close attention, Richie flipped to a rerun of a movie he'd seen a thousand times before, one eye on the clock.

Around eight-thirty, right as Richie's boredom was starting to mutate into worry, the driveway gate clicked open. Eddie was home—Richie let himself relax at last.

He paused the movie, listening for the sound of Eddie crunching up the gravel drive, then his key turning in the lock. "Hey, Eds," he called, as the door swung open. "Your PT ran super late today. Can you still walk or do you need me to get you an icepack and a fainting couch?"

Eddie said nothing. There came the gentle clink of his keys landing on the console table, and then his footsteps across the house. Richie turned, uneasy all over again. "Eddie?"

Eddie came to stand in front of him, wearing his soft athletic clothes from PT and a strange expression on his face. He looked at Richie for a very long moment, and Richie resisted the urge to blurt jokes or obscenities just to break the tension.

"I'm divorced," Eddie said.

He sounded odd. Everything about him was intense right now: his posture, the expressionless curve of his mouth, the flat gaze he kept trained on Richie's face. Richie fumbled with the remote, even though the show was paused already. "What?"

"Myra signed the papers this afternoon, so my lawyer asked me to come in. It's done. I'm divorced," Eddie said again. He stepped closer. "Which means I'm single."

"Right."

"Which means," he continued, "I can do anything I want."

Richie clutched the sofa cushions for dear life. His mouth was dry. He had an inkling where this was going but he didn't dare let himself hope. He did, however, let himself try to deflect. "Let me take a wild guess here," he said, "What you want... is me?"

"Yeah," Eddie said. And then he got on his knees.

All the blood in Richie's body _slammed_ into his dick. He was light-headed, watching Eddie settle gingerly between his legs, one hand on Richie's thigh. Eddie spread his fingers wide, his thumb a bare inch from Richie's inseam. Richie did his best not to whimper.

Eddie raised his eyes. "I have no fucking clue what I'm doing here," he admitted.

"God, Eddie, that's—more than fine," Richie said. He had _known_ Eddie was going through an elaborate divorce-related sexuality crisis, and maybe later he'd take some time to freak about it, but right now, with Eddie's hands digging into the muscle of his thighs, Richie did not give a shit. "You are wildly exceeding expectations here."

Squinting, Eddie searched his face for teasing, but when he didn't find any, he nodded. "Good," he said, then reached up to unbutton Richie's jeans. Richie _squeaked_ when Eddie's hand brushed up against his hard dick; Eddie jumped. "God, I—sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Richie insisted. "Here—" he lifted his hips enough to yank his pants down, leaving him in just his boxers. This time, when Eddie pressed his fingers into the muscle of Richie's thighs, they were skin to skin. "Jesus, Eddie."

"You might have to talk me through this," Eddie said, sounding contemplative. He toyed with the hem of Richie's boxers, then slipped his hands beneath them. "Because, like I said, I don't know what I'm doing."

"Fuck, Eddie, you can start by _please_ just touching me," Richie said through gritted teeth.

Eddie laughed—Richie had a single instant to question whether Eddie wasn't playing an unbelievably cruel prank—and then he peeled Richie's boxers down his hips. Richie's cock sprang up and whacked his lower stomach wetly. Before he could be embarrassed, though, Eddie reached down and fit his mouth around him.

Had Richie been twenty years younger, he would have come, then and there. As it was, he shot his arms out to grasp the back of the sofa so that he wouldn't grab Eddie by the hair. He wanted to, had wanted to since he was a teenager. But Eddie didn't know what he was doing. Eddie's mouth was hot and wet but tentative—he didn't know what the _fuck_ he was doing. He had never done this, for anyone, before.

Richie's dick twitched. In Eddie's mouth. Eddie pulled back and said, "Oh my _God_ , Rich," in the most breathless voice Richie had ever heard him use. His chest was heaving, his eyes huge.

"Please tell me you're not freaking out," Richie croaked.

Shaking his head, Eddie lifted his hand and dragged his tongue across his palm. Richie was still recovering from that when Eddie closed his hand around him, jerking him experimentally. "Not freaking out," he said. His grip was too loose, but he seemed to be easing into it. He kissed Richie's thigh, right below the crease. With his other hand he traced Richie's hip, using his thumb to map the bone, expression dreamy. "You're really—wow, Richie. You're really hot."

"Are you surprised?" Richie said, voice nearly breaking when Eddie pressed his tongue to the underside of his dick.

Eddie laughed, open-mouthed, against his lower stomach. "Surprised you're letting me, maybe."

Clearly Eddie had lost his damn mind. Richie had been dying to get in Eddie's pants for decades, and now Eddie was on his knees in front of him, acting like Richie was doing him a _favor_? Richie meant to tell him he was nuts, but then Eddie put his mouth on Richie's dick again, and Richie promptly lost the power of speech.

Eddie had no finesse. Eddie had nothing even approaching finesse. The last time Richie had received such a sloppy, inexperienced blowjob, he'd been in college. Eddie couldn't figure out how to coordinate his hands and mouth; he tried, admirably, to deep-throat and then backed off, hissing through his teeth. He kept interrupting his own rhythm to touch Richie's thighs or the soft paunch of his belly. Richie couldn't find fault with him—it was still so spine-meltingly hot that it was Eddie doing this, Eddie mouthing wetly at the head of his dick. And it was sweet, too. Eddie had never done this. If he wanted to touch Richie gently all over, Richie was fine with that. Anything Eddie wanted, he was down for.

Finesse he did not have, but he had determination. When Eddie tired of touching Richie's soft, squishy stomach and upper legs, he settled down to business. His move was simple but effective: with one hand, he jerked Richie off, with the other he squeezed Richie's thigh hard enough to sting, and he sucked at the head of Richie's cock like he never planned on breathing again.

"Jesus Christ, Eddie," Richie said, fingers pulverizing the couch cushions.

Eddie slid off, his dark eyes all pupil when he met Richie's gaze. "Tell me you like it." It was unclear if he was being sexy and demanding or if he really wanted guidance; either way, Richie was happy to comply. Trembling, he nodded. "Good," Eddie said. As he ducked his head to take Richie back into his mouth, he added, "I like it too."

In an instant, Richie went from enjoying himself to on the verge of coming in Eddie's mouth. "Eddie, fuck—" he said, yanking on Eddie's hair urgently. But Eddie, who was clearly trying to _kill him_ , moaned and went nowhere, sucking the head of his cock even harder. The implication made every nerve in Richie's body catch fire. He managed one aborted thrust and then he came in Eddie's mouth.

Eddie recoiled, spluttering and furious. "Richie!"

"What!" Richie said. He was still technically coming, on Eddie's chin and throat and t-shirt. The visual was electrifying, but Eddie was _pissed_. Richie caught the last few spurts in his hand, immediately feeling stupid for having a handful of jizz. Logically, it made sense to just add it to the come on Eddie's shirt but Eddie looked like he'd bite him if he tried.

"What the fuck! _You came on my face!_ "

"I was pulling on your hair, dude! That is the universal sign for 'I'm about to nut in your mouth'!"

"The fuck it is, shit-for-brains," Eddie said, "I thought you were just pulling on my hair!"

Richie, who had no sense of self-preservation, started laughing. Helpless, huge gasps of laughter, which he cut off abruptly when Eddie began to stand up, expression murderous. "Wait, no—I'm sorry, Eds, I'm so sorry," he said, grabbing Eddie with his mostly-clean hand. He wiped his other hand off on his own t-shirt and pulled Eddie into his lap. Despite the hard set of his jaw, Eddie allowed himself to be pulled. "God, I'm so sorry," Richie said again, kissing Eddie's throat, "Get your dick out, I'm gonna get you off."

"I like this shirt!" Eddie snapped, even as he shoved his shorts down his thighs. His legs were skinny but corded with muscle, covered in fine hair, and his dick—his dick was as good-looking as the rest of him. Richie had a _disease_ , he was simply too horny for Eddie, and his own soft cock gave a pathetic twitch at the sight of him. Ignoring it, he set to worrying at Eddie's neck with his teeth while he started to jerk Eddie off with the hand still slick with his own come. "I like this shirt and you got come— _oh_ , fuck, Richie, you got come all over it—"

"I like it too, I'm so—fuck Eddie," Richie said, biting down on Eddie's collarbone too hard, hard enough that Eddie yelped. But his hips snapped forward, shoving his dick through the tight circle of Richie's fingers. "You're so hot, it's not fair."

It was unbearable, actually. Just as Eddie had done to him, Richie touched Eddie everywhere, all the places he'd wanted to during the last two months of PG makeouts: his thighs, his taut belly, the curve of his shoulders underneath his soft t-shirt. Eddie was still basically dressed, just his hard dick out and in Richie's hand, which Richie loved—he'd never thought to picture it like this, Eddie coming home and jumping him on the couch—but he also wanted Eddie naked. He was too impatient, though, and Eddie was already in his lap, pissed and horny and hard enough to pound nails. And anyway, Richie wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Fuck you Richie, you fucking asshole, why the fuck do you have to be good at this—"

"Practice, baby," Richie said smugly.

"I'm gonna come on _your_ shirt," Eddie said, gasping when Richie twisted his wrist just right, "See how you fucking like that—"

He had more to say, most likely, but Richie couldn't bear not kissing him a moment longer. He tugged Eddie down by the hair to fit their mouths together. Eddie made a high-pitched shivery noise even as Richie kissed him, twitching like he was trying to get even closer. The idea that Eddie, with his immaculately gelled hair, was into that—Richie, overcome with horny energy for which he had no outlet, bit down on Eddie's lower lip until Eddie made a noise like a sob.

He was getting close; his thrusts were sloppy, and his spine was starting to lock up. To get him there, Richie tightened his fist and yanked Eddie's hair, straight down, at the same time.

Eddie did indeed come on Richie's shirt.

As he started to come down, Eddie slithered sideways over Richie's lap, letting his face fall into the join between the sofa cushions. "Fuck," he said, muffled and almost unintelligible. Richie laughed and ran gentle, curious fingers up Eddie's thigh, from knee to hip.

"So," he said. "You liked the hair-pulling?"

Eddie turned his head enough to glare at Richie from the corner of one eye. "Eat me."

They had had sex. On one hand, Richie was over the fucking moon, and that was the hand he planned to hold onto. Somewhere deep within his mind panic roared, but he blocked it out, focusing on the rasp of the hair of Eddie's thigh against his palm. It was soft, so much lighter and finer than his own body hair. Richie liked it, a lot. He liked everything about Eddie, except perhaps that he was lying in his come-covered shirt against the sofa.

"Come on," Richie said, reaching up to tug at his hem. "Gimme your shirt, I'll throw it in the laundry."

"Don't," Eddie said, still addressing the sofa cushions.

"You're literally covered in my come, dude."

"I'm—Richie, don't," Eddie said, twisting his body away so that Richie couldn't pull at the soft cotton anymore. His body language had grown stiff and sharp, and he slid entirely off Richie's lap into the corner of the couch, wiggling back into his shorts as he did so. "I look fucking disgusting, okay."

"What?"

Richie's puzzlement seemed to piss Eddie off more. "Fuck off."

Richie stared at him. Eddie was absolutely not joking about this. Eddie was huddled into the couch, wearing a shirt covered in bodily fluids, so that Richie couldn't look at him. It was a moment that called for delicacy, and Richie opened and shut his mouth several times as he tried to locate some.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want, but Eddie, you don't look disgusting," he said at last. When Eddie's frown began to soften, Richie decided to push his luck. "Come on, dude. I saw you shirtless in Bangor."

He refrained from pointing out that he had seen Eddie's insides in Derry and had still gladly had sex with him. He did not think Eddie would take that well.

Snorting, Eddie stared past Richie's shoulder at nothing. "If you see what I look like now you're never gonna want to touch my dick again."

"How do I have the highest self-esteem in this house?" Richie said. It was a petty thing to say, and he was expecting it when Eddie kicked him in the knee. But that was all Eddie did, still holding himself taut and looking miserable, and Richie couldn't bear to see him like that anymore. "Hold on," he said, and went to the laundry room just off the kitchen. A load of Eddie's clothes were mostly-dry in the dryer; Richie fished out a random t-shirt and brought it back to Eddie. "I won't look," he said, offering it to Eddie. "Just... you know. You're getting spunk on the couch."

Eddie flipped him off for that, but he accepted the shirt, too. Richie turned on his heel and stared at the front door and the neat rows of their intermingled shoes beside the console table. He even whistled jauntily. It was stupid but it worked; behind him, Eddie laughed.

"Okay, you can turn around," Eddie said. When Richie did so, he was wearing the new shirt, the old one wadded up in his hands. "Thanks. Asshole."

Inclining his head, Richie took the dirty shirt and tossed both it and his own filthy t-shirt in the vicinity of the laundry room. Then he sat on the edge of the coffee table—sitting next to Eddie on the couch, the couch where Eddie had just _sucked his dick_ —felt too fraught. "So," he said. "You're divorced."

"I'm divorced," Eddie agreed. "She keeps the condo, and I don't have to pay alimony."

He looked pained, though. He picked at the seams in the cushions, not meeting Richie's eyes. 

"Is that good?"

"No, it was a bad deal. But it lets me be done with her."

"Eddie..." Richie said, not knowing what else to say.

The sigh Eddie let out was so big it was almost painful. "It's fine," he said. "I screwed Myra over plenty. I just wanted to be done."

Richie wanted to ask. He had a lot of questions, running from the nosy to the desperate, but he resisted the urge. He had never met Eddie's wife, but he hated her—he would have hated anyone Eddie married, even if she made him happy. And Myra most certainly did not; Eddie had never said a good thing about her. After his morphine-induced rant about her and their terrible marriage from his hospital bed, he'd also never said a _bad_ thing about her, but still.

If Eddie had wanted to tell Richie about his wife, Richie would have listened. Even to the hard parts. But that wasn't what this was. Richie didn't know what the hell this had been, but Eddie sat there, saying nothing, and Richie didn't push.

Forcing a smile, he bumped his knee into Eddie's. "Did you eat?"

"Yeah. Bill picked me up from my lawyer's office, he brought takeout." Eddie shrugged; Richie suppressed a little flare of jealousy. "Which was nice, but I also really wanted to come suck your dick, so."

Those words coming out of Eddie's mouth shocked Richie into laughing, turned on and surprised and a little heartsick, all at once. "You contain multitudes, Eds."

He was at a loss for what to do next. It seemed rude to run upstairs and hide, even though that was his instinctual response. It had been a while since Richie had been someone's gay initiation, but the rules probably hadn't changed: you couldn't abandon a newbie. Based on Eddie's fear of germs and lifelong heterosexuality, Richie estimated that Eddie would flee in about two minutes. Maybe less. While he waited, he reached out to fish the remote out from between the cushions.

Eddie watched him do this. "What were you watching?"

"Uh," Richie said, " _A Few Good Men_."

Impossible though it sounded, Eddie claimed to have never seen it. Richie had seen it a million times, both because he loved Tom Cruise's early work and because he'd spent several years depressed and channel-surfing. "If you've seen it a million times," Eddie said skeptically, "Why are you watching it again?"

"I'll watch it pretty much whenever it's on," Richie said, instead of _I was so bored without you around_. Besides, he _did_ watch it whenever it was on—he was weak for young Tom Cruise being mouthy and excitable in his Navy dress whites. Eddie rolled his eyes at this reasoning but didn't get up. Richie kept expecting him to run, but instead Eddie stayed where he was, tucked into his corner, legs stretched straight out across the middle cushion.

"Well?" he said, after a long minute of Richie fiddling, aimlessly, with the remote.

"Oh," Richie said, catching on, "You wanna watch?"

"Whatever," Eddie said. That wasn't the definitive statement Richie was hoping for, but no further answer came. Mystified, Richie hit play. He joined Eddie on the couch again; Richie would suffer a lot of things for Eddie but not sitting on the coffee table for the next two hours. Eddie was surely being polite. He'd last ten more minutes, tops, before making his excuses. All Richie had to do was last ten more minutes.

Ten minutes turned into twenty, then thirty, then an hour. Eddie watched every scene, attention rapt. He did not get up. Instead, after a commercial break, he wormed his way over to Richie's side of the couch, propping himself against Richie's bare shoulder.

What the hell?

Richie did not dare move. He had no idea what was going through Eddie's mind. Eddie yawned but stayed awake, making stupid commentary on the legal system and pressing himself into Richie's side.

Every inch of Richie where Eddie's t-shirt brushed against his skin seemed to vibrate with tension. He felt like a glassy lake, with Eddie floating precariously on top, buoyed by surface tension; any minute now, the tension would give way. It _had_ to. Any minute now, Eddie would run.

But he didn't. Instead, Eddie wiggled his way under Richie's arm, sighing contentedly; Richie let it happen. When they got to the end of the trial and Jack Nicholson said _that_ quote, Eddie said, "Wait a minute. _That's_ what that's from?"

The question was so shocking that Richie had to hit pause. " _You can't handle the truth?_ Seriously, Eds?"

Eddie, unrepentant, shrugged. "I thought that was just a thing people said in the 90's."

Richie was appalled. Unfortunately, he was also stupid in love. All he said was, "God, it's like you lived under a _rock_." Eddie snorted but didn't move; he just laid his cheek on Richie's shoulder.

Any minute now, Richie was sure of it. He kept on being sure of it, long after the movie ended.

+++

Richie had had exactly one long-term boyfriend, an equally closeted waiter who longed to be the next Brad Pitt but was, talent-wise, more of a Pauly Shore. Richie had been twenty-eight, his boyfriend three years older, and their relationship was founded largely on convenience. After a few months, Richie asked him to move in, and Terry had said yes but kept his old place, too. When they fought, which was often, Terry would go home to lick his wounds and Richie would wonder what was wrong with him, that his boyfriend paid rent in two places so as to always have somewhere to run off to.

In the end, Terry had broken both leases and moved to Seattle to join a co-op; Richie had borne this with bad grace and contented himself to dying alone. But then Mike had called, and Eddie had gotten injured, and then he'd moved to California, and then he'd sucked Richie's soul out through his dick on the couch.

And then he'd started sleeping in Richie's bed.

After said soul-sucking and the movie and the cuddling, Richie had gone to bed and proceeded to lie there, staring at the ceiling for eight hours. He had slept, terribly, between the hours of eight and nine, and then given up on the whole thing. When he went downstairs, Eddie was already working. His headphones were in, a frown etched across his forehead. Richie tiptoed into the kitchen and prayed that Eddie wouldn't hear him.

God must not have been listening, because five minutes later, Eddie strolled into the kitchen and startled the crap out of Richie. "Hey," he said, "Why are you up so early?"

Richie clutched the bagel he'd been slicing in front of him like a flimsy shield. "Uh. I don't know."

It was a mark of how long Eddie had lived here—six months now, almost half a year—that Richie's weirdness didn't faze him at all. Instead, he yawned, ruffled a hand through his hair, and walked behind Richie to the coffeepot. He poured the last of the pot into his own mug, then, automatically, reached up to grab a new filter. The shiny silver knobs, freshly installed by Eddie's own hand, glinted in the light as he pulled the cupboard doors open. "I have to go jump on a call in five, so don't make any sudden, loud movements," he said, "But while I have a second, what do you think of green?"

"Green?"

"For the kitchen."

"For the kitchen?" Richie had barely slept, so he couldn't be sure that Eddie was speaking English, let alone if his words made sense together.

"Yeah, like the cabinetry."

Richie stared at him. He looked fundamentally unchanged from the Eddie of yesterday morning, the one who would kiss him so long as he kept his hands at or above his shoulders. The _married_ Eddie. Same dark eyes, thick eyebrows, mouth turned down into a slash as he started a new pot of coffee. Richie came on that face yesterday, he remembered with a touch of panic. "You want green cabinets, Eddie?"

"I have—don't laugh at me—a Pinterest board," said Eddie. He scowled at Richie, as if daring him to laugh. But then he ducked behind Richie to put the creamer back in the fridge and placed a casual hand on Richie's lower back to steady himself, and Richie's brains liquefied and dribbled out his ears.

"Uhh," Richie said. Eddie's hand, still carrying the lingering coldness of the creamer, lifted off his skin, and his thoughts slowly came back online. "Okay, I guess. I mean, you can show me after your call. I don't want to be living in the Emerald City here." Eddie looked at him, blank, and Richie laughed almost frantically. " _The Wizard of Oz,_ Eddie, Jesus Christ."

Eddie took Richie's disbelief at his cultural illiteracy in stride and reached up to kiss him on the mouth. Richie, stunned, let it happen. "Go brush your teeth, asswipe," Eddie said, and then he left the kitchen.

What?

What the fuck.

Eddie was fine. Eddie was normal. Eddie had added sex to their relationship and was now marching around the house in his pajamas without a care in the world. Richie, meanwhile, could barely drink his coffee without spilling it all over himself. He took his mug and his bagel up to his bedroom and hid there for the rest of the morning, pretending that watching TV on his laptop counted as research.

Eddie, oblivious, texted him asking if he wanted lunch. Richie texted back, _no_. Eddie asked if he needed anything while he was out this afternoon. Richie again sent back, _no_. Then Eddie asked which did he want for dinner, stuffed peppers or tilapia filets. Richie, overwhelmed to be asked a question to which he couldn't immediately demur, nearly threw his phone out the window.

Eddie was divorced. He was divorced and the first thing he did to celebrate was face-plant into Richie's dick. Richie tried to understand it as anything other than an elaborate fuck-you to the woman he'd been lately married to, but he couldn't. Eddie hadn't said it meant something to him; Eddie hadn't asked him to dinner afterwards. They were friends. Nothing more.

Richie had slept with his friends before. Never a friend as dear to him as Eddie, but before Derry, he hadn't _had_ friends like Eddie and the other Losers. But Eddie's behavior fit somewhere along that continuum, and besides—he could guess where Eddie's head was at. Eddie was, post-divorce, practicing living again. He was redecorating, and learning to cook, and having sex with Richie. Clearly he was celebrating the end of his terrible marriage with some no-strings-attached sex; Richie couldn't come along and tie strings to it.

He couldn't make his love for Eddie Eddie's problem.

Richie needed a plan. He needed someone smarter than him to tell him what to do and, ideally, administer him electric shocks when he went off-book. If real life had ghostwriters, Richie would have hired some in an instant; Richie badly wanted a script to follow here. Otherwise, if Eddie was going to upgrade their meaningless make-outs to meaningless sex, Richie was stupid enough to go along with it.

 _Stuffed peppers pls,_ he texted Eddie, when he felt like he could respond without screaming.

 _Anything for you_ , Eddie responded. His message included an emoji with its eyes raised skyward. Affection gripped Richie's heart so tightly that his knees went weak.

When he crept downstairs around dinnertime, Eddie was not acting weird. He didn't seem offended that Richie had shut himself in his bedroom all day; instead he kissed Richie again. "The peppers will be done in ten," he said. He was wearing his apron, and his cheeks were flushed from the heat of the oven. 

"Smells good," Richie said. "I, uh—I'm just gonna clear off the sofa."

"Clear it off _how_ ," Eddie said, but Richie pretended not to hear as he went to rearrange the sofa cushions and tidy things that were neat enough already.

The peppers were delicious—another of Ben's recipes. They sat on the sofa, plates balanced on their knees, watching taped episodes of _Jeopardy_. Eddie, ultracompetitive, shouted answers out faster but Richie's knowledge of trivia was inexhaustible. In Bangor, while Eddie was still medicated and woozy from pain, they had watched a lot of _Jeopardy_ together. At first, Richie went easy on him; as Eddie cut down his pills, he started to pull out his A-game. Eddie had gone coldly furious and quit watching for a while when he realized he was outmatched. It had taken months before he got over it and would watch with Richie again.

He was still a huge freak about it, though, so Richie figured that watching an hour or two of _Jeopardy_ meant an hour or two where neither of them would have to address the sex. He was right; Eddie dominated the first game with the help of two sports-themed categories, and then promptly sucked his way through art, literature and potent potables. After they ran out of taped episodes, Richie carried the dishes to the kitchen and scrubbed them by hand. "Thanks Richie," Eddie said, as he handed his plate to Richie. "You don't have to, though. I can come clean up in a minute."

"You cooked," Richie pointed out, wishing that Eddie's answering smile didn't feel like a blow to the stomach.

If Richie had one friend in the world who was not also Eddie's friend, he would have hidden in the kitchen and called them. As it was, he had nobody. He knew other comics, but they were more like acquaintances. The closest thing to an objective friend he had was Paulette, who already thought Eddie was his boyfriend and would never pick up on the nuance. Even if she did understand, she would tell Richie to stop pussy-footing around and confess his feelings already—Richie knew she would. He liked Paulette's take-no-shit attitude, but he liked that she used it on other people. If she used it on him, Richie would probably flip shit.

When the dishes were done, he rejoined Eddie in the living room. He sat on the far cushion of the couch, and then, thinking about Eddie curled up against him during the movie yesterday, moved slightly closer. Rethinking it, he slid back to the corner and crossed his legs. Then he uncrossed them. Then he felt stupid as hell and pulled his knees up to his chest and glared fiercely at nothing in particular.

On the other end of the couch, Eddie was staring at him. Eddie held a paperback novel open on his lap but he wasn't reading it; he was watching Richie avidly, his eyebrows lowered. "Do you have a show tonight?"

"What? No." Richie had guiltily written the dates for his scheduled shows on the calendar hanging on the fridge. The calendar had been a promotional item, junk mail, but Eddie had clipped it to the fridge and started writing in his various appointments on it. More, Richie suspected, because he enjoyed filling it in than to keep Richie informed, but Richie knew he checked it. He didn't want Eddie blindsided by his irrational bad moods again, so as soon as Paulette booked him a new gig, he copied it onto the calendar. "Why?" he asked Eddie, who shrugged.

"You're antsy."

Richie was doing his best over here. "What can I say, Eduardo," he said, "I'm still all hopped up from kicking your ass at _Jeopardy_."

Eddie snorted but, blessedly, turned back to his book.

Richie tried to find his phone interesting. He scrolled through various apps. He ignored the emails Paulette had sent him, trying to pin him down for a meeting with the casting director for _Suspension_. He looked at the clock app on his homescreen, wondering when exactly he could abscond to his bedroom without making Eddie suspicious.

Beside him, Eddie closed his book with a snap and turned to face Richie. Richie, feeling the hot weight of his gaze on him, put his phone down. He was dreading whatever Eddie was about to say, but he did his best to smile like a normal human being. "Hey," he said.

"Hey," Eddie said brusquely. "You want to go have sex?"

Richie choked on his own tongue. "Eddie—Jesus."

Unrepentant, Eddie shrugged. They had not talked about yesterday, they were apparently not _going_ to talk about it, and yet here was Eddie, propositioning him for more. "Come on. I need the practice, clearly."

"You can't just—" Richie said helplessly. "I mean, does that line ever work for you?"

Eddie frowned. "You're vastly overestimating how much sex I've had."

"What does _that_ mean?"

Eddie gave him a look that Richie remembered from childhood. The memory hit him the way Derry memories still did, even eight months after—Richie saw the moment like a double-exposure photograph, teenage Eddie scowling at him, adult Eddie's face arranged in the same expression. Eddie wore the same flat frown now that he had when Richie got hung up on some trivial detail in a homework assignment due first period. As if he thought Richie was making problems on purpose.

"Rich," he said, "I'm going to go get in your bed."

And Richie was a weak man. In high school, he'd caved and abandoned the question he _knew_ the teacher had written wrong; now he scrambled off the sofa and followed Eddie upstairs, hot on his heels like Eddie might somehow get away. If Eddie wanted meaningless sex, Richie would give it to him.

Where Eddie was concerned, Richie was exactly that stupid.

Eddie still struggled on the stairs, pausing for breath halfway through; Richie did his best not to hover. At the top, though, Eddie caught his breath and then kissed Richie fiercely. Halfway to desperate already, Richie knocked him into the wall so hard his glasses slipped off his face.

That made Eddie laugh. "I'm not going anywhere, Rich," he said. Richie ignored him, kissed him harder, and together they managed to fall through the doorway and onto the bed.

They landed on their sides, kissing desperately, no room between the two of them, and Richie's head was a _mess_. Eddie was straight. Or maybe he wasn't, because it was one thing to kiss your male roommate and another to kiss him for two months and then start sleeping with him. Eddie was confused. He was delirious. Maybe nearly dying had scrambled Eddie's sexual preferences so badly that he was interested in _Richie_ of all people; Richie didn't know. He couldn't bear to ask.

Eddie put a hand up the back of Richie's shirt, guiding Richie on top of him. He was half hard. When Richie reached down to palm him through his sweats, Eddie threw his head back and swore. "Fuck," he said, "You're just so—"

What exactly Richie was, he did not say. Instead, his fingers tightened against Richie's back as he rocked his hips up, grinding their dicks together. Richie groaned, feeling like his skin was overheating. Without thinking, he reached for the hem of Eddie's shirt.

In a flash, Eddie tensed all over; Richie yanked his hand back as if burnt. "Eds," he said apologetically. But Eddie shook his head, determination stamped on his face. 

"Turn the lights off."

Richie froze. He didn't want to turn the lights off. He wanted to commit every detail of this to memory, a photograph negative he could store inside his head. There was nothing wrong with Eddie. There was nothing wrong and Richie didn't give a shit if there was, he loved him anyway, his skinny ankles and his dimples like slashes in his face and, yes, his enormous puncture wound and its attendant scarring. But he couldn't _say_ any of that. "I—"

Eddie touched his face. "Richie," he said, pleading.

Richie understood. Richie nodded. Then he stood and turned the lights off.

The sex was good. It was awkward because it was in full darkness, but it would have been awkward anyway—Eddie had no idea what he was doing. He wasn't particularly shy, the way Richie had been as a twenty-year old rolling through various beds, but he was uncertain. He said "sorry" a lot, and at one point, he elbowed Richie in the face.

"Owww," Richie said in a Kermit voice, and Eddie burst out laughing.

"I'm sorry—oh my god, Richie, your nose—"

"Well hey there," Richie said, still talking like a puppet frog, and Eddie was still laughing when their mouths met again.

It was good sex, for all that it was awkward and fumbling. The novelty might have faded, but Eddie's determination to make it good despite his cluelessness got Richie hot. In the darkness, with his glasses off, Richie could barely see Eddie, but he felt it when Eddie pressed his smiling face into Richie's chest. And that, regardless of the quality of the sex, made Richie's heart catch fire.

Afterwards, Richie passed out with Eddie's head on his shoulder, slipping into sleep before he could wonder whether Eddie was planning to stay. 

He woke to the sounds of Eddie's phone alarm going off. Still murky with unconsciousness, he opened one eye. Eddie was sitting on the edge of the bed, backlit by the rising sun peeking through the window shades. He was wearing Richie's t-shirt from the night before. It was too big on him, big enough that the stretched-out collar exposed the ribbon of bite marks Richie had left on him. When Richie made a noise in his throat, Eddie turned to look at him, the sunlight outlining every inch of him in gold.

He looked like every good dream Richie had ever had.

"Good morning," Eddie said, voice soft and scratchy with sleep.

Richie swallowed hard. "Hey, Spaghetti."

Eddie yawned, stretched. "I would bring you coffee but I'm not coming back up once I go down. Come get coffee whenever you're ready."

He started to stand but then Richie spoke. "You slept here," he said nonsensically, because he didn't quite believe it. This did not faze Eddie; instead he laughed. Then he reached out and carefully lifted Richie's glasses off the nightstand, gently placing them on his face.

"Yeah," Eddie said, adjusting the glasses until they were even across the bridge of Richie's nose. Then he met Richie's eyeline and smiled, dimples flashing. His right thumb brushed against Richie's cheekbone. "Yeah, I did. You snore, Rich."

Richie felt like sugar-glass, like he might melt or shatter at the slightest change in pressure. 

Eddie stroked the curve of Richie's cheek. His eyelashes were so long, even under the dark shadow of his eyebrows; Richie was so in love with him. "Come down soon," he said, and then he stood, scratched his collarbone through his t-shirt—Richie's t-shirt—and ambled out of the room.

Richie did not follow. Richie rolled over and put his face into the pillow that still smelled like Eddie's shampoo and screamed.

And that was how Eddie started sleeping in his bed.

+++

Richie honked his horn, then immediately wanted to die of shame. What kind of big-shot asshole _honked_ to get the attention of service workers? But he'd had no choice—the automatic gate that separated the parking garage from the street refused to lift. The security guard, who stood smoking in a patch of bright sunlight, raised a hand at Richie. Richie waggled his fingers back. He felt like a stupid asshole.

The guard flicked his cigarette butt onto the concrete and started jogging over to Richie's car. Richie had no idea what facial expression to select, and he landed on a crazed half-grin. "Apologies, sir," the guard said as he let himself into the booth. "Oh. Hey. You're that comedian, aren't you?"

Wincing, Richie turned the radio down to a conversational volume. "Uhh, yeah," he said. That comedian—the one who'd dipped out halfway through a tour? The one who'd had a breakdown? Or maybe this guy was just familiar with Richie's earlier work. He truly didn't know which option was preferable. "I'm sorry, I like, hit the button—"

The guard nodded. "It does that. Hold on." He curled his hand into a fist and gave the mechanical arm a whack; it juddered, making ominous noises. "I know Ms. Glorioso up on the tenth floor. She's always bragging about you."

Richie laughed weakly. "Good to hear."

"Because I don't like that potty-mouth humor. So mean spirited," the guard said. Potty-mouth, he said. He gave Richie a small, careful frown, as if Richie had personally disappointed this middle aged, mustachioed security guard who worked in Paulette's building by saying obscenities in his comedy routine. "But Ms. Glorioso says you're not like that. She says you're funny. Well. I'll be the judge of that."

At last, the machine gave a loud _beep_ and spat a ticket into the air. Before Richie could grab it, the security guard plucked it from the slot and handed it to him. "You have a nice day, sir," he said, in a perfectly pleasant tone of voice.

Richie, light-headed, nodded. His fingers closed around the ticket. "Okay," he said, and drove his car into the garage.

He moved robotically through the elevator, the hallway, up to Paulette's office. The admin assistant ushered him in and Richie sat down in the familiar leather chair facing Paulette's desk. "She'll just be a minute," the assistant said. Richie nodded. Then the assistant shut the door and he was alone, staring at Paulette's desk and downtown Los Angeles just beyond it.

He was going to disappoint the security guard. He felt it. His routine was funny but was it really funny, funny to normal people? It played well in the small, secretive shows that Paulette had been test-driving him on; professional comics and comic enthusiasts liked it. But maybe _they_ didn't even find it funny. Maybe they were just coming out to gawk at Richie Tozier, that asshole, getting up there and displaying his soft white underbelly for their amusement. Maybe what was funny wasn't the jokes but the patheticness of the whole endeavor. The Richie Tozier comeback tour—a cruel joke, and he was the only one who wasn't in on it.

"Hey, Rich," came Paulette's voice from behind him.

Richie did not look up from the blinding patch of sky he was staring at through her plate-glass window. "Hey Paulette."

She clapped him on the shoulder as she swept into the room. "You were fucking great last weekend. I got people calling _me_ now." She sat at the desk and started typing immediately, hammering out an email even as she talked to Richie. "This tour's gonna book itself if you carry on like this. Not the big venues, not yet, but I think I could get you a primetime slot in a decent club in any city in America."

"Uh-huh," Richie said. His eyes were starting to water from the brightness.

"Richie," Paulette said, and Richie dragged his gaze away at last. Paulette's skinny penciled eyebrow was cocked, but her expression was calm. "What's going on, Rich?"

There was no point splitting hairs. "What's our plan if I like, bomb."

"We do another show, friendlier crowd. Maybe I crush a Xanax and slip it into your coffee, I don't know. We cross that bridge when we get to it."

"No," he said, squeezing his hands into fists, "I mean, like. Me. What if Richie Tozier, the comedian, bombs. I mean, people fucking hate me."

Paulette sat back in her chair. She gave none of her thoughts away, just tapped a fingernail against her keyboard. "What's this about?"

"It's about my fucking career, Paulette. I spent twenty years saying lowest-common-denominator, offensive bullshit, and now I'm getting up on stage trying to make depression sound funny. Which is not even an original conceit, by the way."

Funnier people than him had already made all the good depression jokes. The security guard who hated potty-mouth humor was not going to be very impressed by Richie taking the stage and telling jokes about the different kinds of sadness baths.

After a long beat of Richie letting his head hang despondently between his knees, Paulette spoke. "Richie. When you play somewhere, the owners beg me to have you back. It's hard getting you in the door, but once you're in they're eating out of the palm of your hand."

"In LA, maybe," Richie said with disgust. "But everyone in LA is depressed already."

"You think people aren't depressed in Texas? In fucking _Cleveland?_ " Paulette shook her head til her earrings jangled. "Also, sweetheart, the set's dark but it's not _that_ dark. You're a charming guy. Women see you up there talking about how all your relationships are doomed and they think, 'Hey, I can change him,' and that makes them hopeful. They're not thinking about you wanting to kill yourself, they're thinking, 'I can turn this guy around.'"

Richie lifted his head. "I don't want women to like me."

"You want them to _dislike_ you?"

"No, I—I want it to make sense," he said plaintitively. "I want to know why being depressed makes people like me more."

Richie did not like himself more because he was depressed. He didn't think the Losers did, nor did Eddie. His mother had told him once that it was hard to love him when he hated himself so much. The few exes who'd bothered to explain before they left had implied the same. He had only started making jokes about his miserable, stupid, pathetic life because he didn't know what the fuck else to write about, but now, apparently, that was good? That was funny?

"They like you because you _talk about_ being sad," Paulette said. "You make them laugh. Everybody walks around so fucking sad, all of the time, and you get up on the stage and make people think, 'Oh, it's not just me,' and then they think it's okay to laugh, even _though_ they're sad. And yes, some of the women, hell, some of the men, are going to look at you telling jokes about being sad, looking the way you do, and they fall a little bit in love with you. And the ones who don't fall in love with you, they like you because they think, 'Well, maybe I am a miserable bastard, but good Christ, at least I'm not alone.'"

Richie stared at her. She stared back at him, her face frank and undeterred by whatever was trapped in Richie's own expression. 

"Looking the way I do?" he said at last, voice faint.

Paulette waved her hand. "You know. Tall."

He leaned back until the front legs of the chair lifted off the floor, and then he let them fall again. He had absolutely no fucking idea what to say.

He opened his mouth anyway. "So like, what're the accomodations going to be like, because if I have to stay in one more fucking airport Hilton I may just off myself for real," he said, just to get Paulette to stop _looking_ at him.

It worked; she held his gaze for another moment but then she broke and laughed. "How do you feel about airport Ramadas?"

An hour later, he stumbled back into the elevator. He had just agreed to play twenty-two cities in seventeen states, plus a college homecoming, but he had basically no memory of it. His brain was still stuck on being liked, being likable, being _seen_.

His hands shook as he fed his car key into the ignition. The same security guard waved at him as he pulled out of the garage; Richie pretended not to see him and hit the gas so hard the car shook.

Richie hated driving in LA—hated the traffic, the tourists, the endless miles of snaking freeway under dirty clouds of smog—but he had done a lot of it. Back and forth to clubs, to writer's workshops, to parties in the Valley where he'd sucked up to influential people whose eyes drifted past him unless he was saying something outrageous to score cheap laughs. He'd driven all those miles in late winter, writing the stupid routine that Paulette said made people like him, despite how depressing it was. Today he drove aimlessly, picking a direction and heading that way.

He couldn't even remember deciding to become a standup comedian. He'd wanted to be a DJ for a while, had even had his own show in college before he dropped out. In high school he'd wanted to be out of Derry far more than he'd ever wanted to do some job, but being out of Derry had left him lost and stumbling, cut off from the most important people in his life. And so he'd become a standup comedian. Not even a good one. Just a heartless, talentless hack.

The security guard had known exactly who he was. _So mean-spirited,_ he'd said. Richie had been more than mean-spirited. He'd been lazily cruel. But what was his alternative? To get onstage and talk about being miserable, fooling the audience into thinking he was brave and honest, when he was really just an empty shell?

He was halfway to Santa Barbara before he calmed down. He didn't even recognize the road, but had to squint at the exit signs in the glare of the fast-approaching sunset.

He couldn't just keep driving like this; Eddie would be at home, waiting for him. Picturing Eddie glancing at the clock, a pan of something warm and hearty going slowly cold on the counter, made Richie's stomach ache.

He pulled off the highway, found a parking lot. Digging his cellphone out of his pocket, he wrote Eddie a text. _won't be home for dinner._

The message flipped from _sent_ , to _delivered_ , to _read_ without pause. Eddie began to type immediately. _Okay. Don't be too late._

Richie didn't start driving, though. The sun was vanishing from the sky, only the top of it still vaguely visible to the west. It was nighttime. He'd wasted a whole afternoon, time he was supposed to have spent writing, and he had nothing to show for it. Nothing but waves of anxiety and Eddie at home, waiting up for him.

Before, he would have gone to a bar or a dubious party, to overload his body on alcohol or drugs and maybe take some mean twenty-five year old home. Now, he sat there, staring at his phone. He had friends now. He had people he could talk to. Not Eddie—he couldn't say all this to Eddie—but he had people who'd listen, no matter what.

Before he lost his nerve, he started a new text, to a new person.

_Am I a good person?_

Ben wasted no time before responding. _This feels like too big a question for text messages?_

He hit call. Ben had barely said a cheerful hello before Richie demanded, "Am I?"

"I don't know," Ben said. Richie resisted the urge to punch the dashboard.

"How does anybody know?" Was this the point of religion? Richie had been raised half-Jewish, half-Presbyterian and all-apathetic, but he was willing to entertain pitches from any listening deities. He'd even hear out the fucking omniscient turtle.

Ben was silent for a long moment. Richie could hear the low hum of a TV from another room, and maybe, although he might have imagined it, Bev's laugh. He pictured Ben, his gentle face creased with thought, listening carefully. "I'm not sure that anybody does know," Ben said at last. "Why are you asking?"

"I wrote this stand-up show because I was tired of being Trashmouth. And now—people like it. But it's about _me_. Like, the real me, Richie Tozier, all my gross feelings and thoughts, under the microscope. And my manager says not only do people like it, but they like me? _Me?_ I'm just up there getting free therapy about how fucked in the head I am, and she says that makes them _like me_."

"You're experiencing vulnerability," Ben said.

"Yeah, and I don't like it."

"You're not supposed to like it. You're just supposed to do it."

"But why?" Richie said, knowing he was being petulant. It didn't make any sense. Why would anyone do this? Why was _Richie_ doing this? The ghostwriters had been bad but at least they hadn't required him to submit himself to the scrutiny of strangers.

At least he hadn't had to get onstage and bleed.

"So you can experience love and connection with other people?" Ben suggested.

"Love and connection is _bullshit_."

Love had made him incredibly stupid. He'd almost died dragging Eddie from a collapsing house; he'd blown up his career to come back to Derry in his friends' hour of need. And now he was having sex with Eddie. Eddie was _sleeping in his bed_. None of it was real, none of it was permanent. He was letting Eddie seep into every corner of his life, knowing how badly it would hurt when he moved on.

"I don't _want_ to open up to people. If you do that, then people can leave you, and it fucking—that's not fair, that's not a sane way to organize the universe. These people are gonna think they know me, and they're just gonna—people leave, man."

"Maybe," Ben said quietly. "But sometimes they stay."

Richie closed his eyes. Already the smears of pink and gold along the horizon had dulled to orange and gray. Soon it would be pitch-black, and Eddie would worry. Richie hadn't needed to be told any of this, but it was reassuring to hear someone else say it.

Sighing, he opened his eyes. "Sorry I called you to unload my personal problems at—shit, what time is it there?"

"It's eleven-thirty here. You didn't wake me. Bev and I were watching the Tonight Show."

Richie resisted the urge to make fun of Ben, because Ben was a good friend who hadn't had to pick up the phone. "Are we connecting, Ben?" he said, aiming for flippant. "Do you feel closer to me?"

"I love you, Richie," Ben said, very seriously, "And we've already seen each other about as vulnerable as a person could ever be."

Richie laughed, fighting back sudden, hot tears. "Aw, don't do that to me, Benjy."

"But yes," Ben continued, "I do feel closer to you. And that's okay, right?"

"Yeah. It's okay."

Ben was quiet for another long moment. It was a serene silence, punctuated by the dull roar of traffic and the muted sound of Bev, laughing to late night television half a world away. It was nonjudgmental and kind. Ben's goodness made Richie feel abjectly miserable, but also, somehow, better. When Ben spoke, he did so with great gentleness. "Richie, I'm always happy to talk to you, but have you ever considered actual therapy?" 

He had considered. Hell, he had even tried. Richie said something noncommittal and Ben sighed but didn't push.

The sky darkened to a leaden gray as Richie sent his love to Bev and Ben sent his to Eddie. Right before Richie hung up, a last question occurred him. "Ben? Am I tall?"

"Objectively? Yes. Compared to Mike? No."

"Traitor," Richie said, and he hung up on him, but not before he heard Ben's delighted laugh.

+++

By the time he pulled into the driveway, he was calmer. His shoulders, which had been tensed around his ears since Paulette's office, had finally relaxed. The gate opened for him, and Richie parked and shut the radio off. For a moment, there was no sound but the steady thump of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He was okay. He was fine. He was at home, with Eddie, who had left the light on for him. Even if Eddie didn't return his feelings and never would, they were still friends. Richie was loved and valued by his friends, and if other people liked his stand-up routine, that was pretty okay too.

Exhaling deeply, he went inside. The house was still, but not silent. The TV was set to the local news with the volume low; the air conditioning hummed. Eddie, fast asleep sitting upright on the couch, must have been watching before he dozed off. He had one hand tucked under his chin, propping his tired head up. Richie's heart wobbled in his chest.

Richie crouched down, shaking Eddie's knee gently. Eddie's eyelashes dipped, fluttered, then opened. He smiled up at Richie. "Hey Rich."

"Hey Eds. You sleeping?"

Nodding, Eddie stretched, making soft noises in his throat. "I missed you," he said. "Did you eat? I Ieft you a plate in the fridge. Spaghetti squash. And _don't_ make any fucking jokes."

"Thanks, Eds."

He left his hand on Eddie's bony knee, the heat of Eddie's body leaching into his palm. Eddie let him. Beyond Eddie's shoulder, the blue flicker of the TV screen painted smudgy shapes on the back wall.

"Hey," Richie said suddenly, noticing what was conspiciously absent on the bookshelves along said back wall, "Where's the toad?"

"What toad?" Eddie said innocently.

"Eds. Come on," Richie said, squeezing the muscle of his thigh. "You hid my toad? Is it in the bed?"

Giving up the ghost immediately, Eddie shrugged. "If you must know, it's in the coat closet."

Scoffing, Richie stood up. What a dumb hiding spot, and what a dumb name. "Coat closet. It's California, Eduardo, who keeps multiple coats going? I—" He opened the closet door and came to an abrupt halt. The glittering toad statute was on the floor, guarding something at once familiar and not.

"Oh," Richie said.

While Richie was marveling, Eddie joined him, standing just behind Richie's shoulder. "You're not mad, right? I found it in the guest room closet, and I thought it would look pretty good on the wall if I framed it." He paused, and Richie could feel his closeness, could hear the sound of his breathing just inches away from Richie's. "Do you like it?"

Richie stared at the familiar poster, restored and framed in dark wood. Paul Simon and Bob Dylan, 1999, at the Garden. He'd bought that at a merch table on 33rd Street, throat still raw from singing along. It had been one of the greatest concerts he'd ever been to, half a lifetime ago. Richie hadn't seen or thought about the poster in years. The picture bore faint lines from being folded, even crumpled, but in the frame, ironed flat and encased in glass, they were almost invisible. 

"Yeah," he said, running a finger against the soft grain of the wood. "I really like it."

Eddie said, in a quiet voice, "I didn't know you went to that concert. I changed trains at Madison Square Garden for like, four years."

How would he have known? They had been wrenched apart for all those years. Richie burned at the unfairness of it all. But Eddie was here now—sockless in his living room, dozing asleep on his couch, presenting him with thoughtful, beautiful gifts. 

It had been a long day, full of so many peaks and valleys, and Richie couldn't think of anything to say. But Eddie was staring up at him, hesitant, maybe even worried.

Richie, words failing him, drew Eddie into his arms.

"Oh," Eddie said, sounding pleased. He touched Richie's shoulders gently. "You _do_ like it."

"It's really, really nice, Eddie," Richie assured him. "But isn't it gonna look weird, just this poster?"

"No, I was thinking," Eddie said. He rolled his head onto Richie's shoulder so they could look at each other without surrendering their embrace. Richie, who had no desire to let go, now or ever, approved. "We should get more stuff for the walls. It looks so bare in here."

"Like what?"

"Like, I don't know, art. What kind of art do you like?"

"Andy Warhol," Richie said immediately.

Eddie huffed out a breath into Richie's collarbone. "Okay, veto, because I'm not staring at a soup can on the wall."

"He did more than just soup cans, Eds," Richie said. He had taken one art class in college before he dropped out, gravitating immediately to the modern artists of the 1960s, most of whom he had since forgotten. But Richie never forgot the way Warhol made him feel. "He did photographs too, and he did that huge balloon installation."

"Well, I'm not staring at whatever the fuck a balloon installation is either."

Richie laughed, letting his temple knock into Eddie's. They still hadn't let go. Richie had both hands on Eddie's lower back, idly tracing a ridge of scarring there through Eddie's shirt. His hand was in motion before he thought about it, and he wondered, briefly, if Eddie would get mad. But he didn't; he let Richie do it. Eddie, his arms around Richie's neck, his cheek on Richie's shoulder, sighed but didn't move as Richie traced the seam of scar tissue from the small of his back to the center of his spine.

"Are you okay, Rich?" Eddie asked, without judgment.

Richie stopped petting him. "Yeah," he said, reassuring himself as much as Eddie. "Long day."

"Me too," Eddie said, sighing. "Let's go to bed."

He meant upstairs. Richie knew, because it had been two days and Eddie had slept in his bed both nights. Richie had no fucking clue what Eddie was getting out of it, but Eddie had moved his tootbrush and pajamas upstairs. Now after sex Eddie could just brush his teeth and immediately fall asleep, right there on Richie's other pillow. Richie hadn't stopped him; if it wasn't quite what he wanted, it was close enough.

The poster would only make everything harder, in the end, but Richie couldn't help staring at it. Gently, he slid out of Eddie's grasp and reached into the closet. He left the toad where it was, but the poster he picked up and lay carefully on its side against the wall. Tomorrow he'd hang it properly. Until then, the fault lines where it had been folded many times shone silvery where they caught the light. "Eddie," he said again, "This—I don't know what to say."

Eddie reached for Richie's hand and squeezed it. "Come to bed," he said, and Richie did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: richie and eddie have sex & due to miscommunication, richie comes on eddie's face and this annoys but does not upset eddie; eddie says disparaging things about his body/his scars from the clown attack; richie's internalized homophobia and self-hate combine & reinforce each other; richie's old routine/schtick is discussed and the obvious misogyny/racism/general shittiness of it is alluded to; A LOT OF DISCUSSION of richie's past suicidal ideation and depression, including a joke about killing himself, as well as discussion of substance abuse, previous terrible relationships, religion, and therapy; tom cruise is unfortunately mentioned. this is by far the darkest chapter so if you have stuck with it, know it gets easier from here. 
> 
> should you ever find yourself in Pittsburgh, the andy warhol museum is really worth seeing, particularly Silver Clouds, the balloon installation that richie talks about here.


	4. Wildflower Honey, Grade A Unfiltered, 32oz

Richie's phone buzzed against the countertop, alerting him to an incoming call. Right before it bounced its way off the edge, Richie snagged it. He grinned when he saw who was calling. "You're late."

"In my defense," Mike said, laughing, "I was in the Grand Canyon."

"Oh sure, sure," Richie said as he tried to neatly align the tape measure with the edge of the laminate countertop, "It's always, 'Sorry I forgot to call Richie, I was in a literal canyon.' People are always trying to pull one over on me with that old chestnut."

"Sorry I forgot to call, Richie," Mike parroted back. "But I really _was_ in a literal canyon."

"Nah man, I'm just fucking with you," Richie said. He finished scrawling the measurements onto a notepad and then ripped off the sheet of paper, stuck it to the fridge and slapped a magnet on it. The magnet was in the shape of a brightly colored bird; Stan had sent it to him. "Seriously, I also forgot about our call, and I don't even have a cool excuse like hiking the Grand fucking Canyon."

He left the kitchen and retreated to the living room, exchanging pleasantries as he did so. When he was seated on the couch, Richie switched to video and Mike's face appeared. He was beaming from ear to ear. "Hi again!"

"Hi," Richie said, as he kicked his feet onto the coffee table. "Alright, so, tell me the truth, Mikey. The Grand Canyon: lives up to the hype? I doubt the pictures do the big hole in the ground justice."

Several hundred miles away, Mike laughed. He was wearing a wide-brimmed sunhat that shadowed his eyes and face, but his smile was as luminous as ever. He looked happy—tired and sun-dazed, his clothes powdered with dust, but happy. "Good," he said. "Hot, though. The trail I took down into the canyon yesterday has almost no shade, it was difficult, pushing through to the end. I took the Bright Angel trail back this morning. It's longer but shadier, and at one point there was just this group of elk, standing around, watching me."

"How big's an elk versus a moose?"

Richie had been with Mike the one time he'd ever seen a moose up-close. They had been young teenagers, traipsing around the woods and half-heartedly talking about girls when Mike had spotted it. They'd had to scale a tree and wait for the animal to move on, Richie cracking ill-timed jokes and Mike frantically shushing him. They'd raced to the clubhouse to tell the others afterward, but nobody had ever believed they'd been chased up a tree by an enormous moose.

Mike laughed again. "A lot smaller than a moose. But there were a lot of them! It was a whole herd!"

Half a year after Mike had helped Eddie pack up his condo and then started on his road trip, he was still driving. He had done thirty states in six months, doubling back occasionally, staying for a while in Memphis and the Gulf Coast of Florida before meandering onwards in lazy arcs across the country. In theory, he was aiming to end up in LA sometime this summer, but he was in no hurry. Instead he kept finding new places to stop and stick around. Whenever he called, he was always brimming with excitement, and he always had beautiful photos to share.

Richie could not have verbalized it to himself but he needed Mike to be happy. If Mike was happy on his cross-country road trip, then Richie didn't need to feel so fucking guilty about the years he'd spent keeping vigil in Derry. He _did_ feel guilty, of course; he always would. But so long as Mike was out there, going to beautiful places and experiencing wonderful things, then Richie could at least push that worry down his long list of things to worry about.

Mike _did_ seem happy. He seemed wistful, too—sometimes Richie felt guilty telling him about what he and Eddie were up to. Bev had hinted that she, too, felt bad. Mike was free and exploring the world but he was also _alone_. Not just single, which Richie had concluded was a tolerable if uninspiring way to live, but also without another person who'd lived through Derry.

Even though Richie and Eddie never talked about Derry, Eddie was here. He was here and he understood. At night, when Richie's racing thoughts kept him awake, Eddie didn't ask questions. He'd get Richie a glass of water and curl up next to him, a defensive wall of bony knees and cold toes, keeping the nightmares at bay. Mike had the whole country laid out at his feet, but he didn't have _that_.

But Bill was alone, too, and he seemed okay. And eventually Richie would be in the same boat, whenever Eddie got tired of playing house with him. He would learn to survive, just as Mike had.

Probably.

"What would you have done if the elk charged you?"

"Died," Mike said simply. "What am I going to do against an entire herd of elk?"

"I don't know! We killed an alien in a sewer, man, you should be able to take on a couple of deer. Or you could have climbed a tree, like we did when the moose came after us."

Mike laughed. "Exactly how many big oak trees do you think they have growing in the Grand Canyon?"

They were discussing the pros and cons of Colorado in late spring time when, behind Richie's head, the front door opened—Richie could see it in his reflection, the tiny door opening over his tiny shoulder. It was Eddie. He was back from his morning with Bill, grocery bags slung over his arms. "Richie? They didn't have good tomatoes, they just had—Oh," he said, going shifty and embarrassed as he realized Richie was on the phone. "Is that Mike?"

"The one and only," Richie said, holding his phone up so Eddie could see. Eddie made an offended noise in his throat, as if _Richie_ were to blame for Mike's timing, but dutifully put the bags down and squinted at Richie's phone.

"Hi Mike, you look good."

"Hi Eddie!" Mike said. "You look tan!"

Eddie didn't tan so much as freckle, which Richie adored and Eddie was grumpy about. "Yeah, it's all the walking Bill and I do. It's for my recovery. And someone always says he'll come along," he added, sotto voce, shooting a glare in Richie's direction, "And he never does."

"You were at the _farmer's market,_ Eddie, Jesus. If you and Bill want to do twee bullshit together, that's on you."

"You were with Bill?" Mike said. He sounded different, although Richie couldn't say how. Not _jealous_ , surely; who could be jealous of a morning spent fighting LA hipsters for the freshest kale, or whatever the fuck? "How is he?"

The rest of them had had a group call to celebrate Eddie's divorce being finalized, but Mike, busy hiking somewhere in Utah, hadn't had cell service. "He's great," Eddie said, smiling widely. Richie suppressed a flare of jealousy. "His new place is looking good."

"Eddie's an interior designer now," Richie added.

"Shut up," Eddie said. "Although, Mike, you wanna see what I've been working on? I just repainted the kitchen, for the first time _ever_ , apparently—"

Without asking, he plucked Richie's phone out of his hand and strode off with it, chattering on about paint colors. Richie, put out, looked around for someone to appeal to. Who _did_ that? Who just took your phone and walked off with it? Richie's beloved did, unfortunately.

After a beat, Eddie reemerged from the kitchen. "—yeah, I don't know, it's like a mountain?" he said. He tilted the phone to the wall, showing Mike his newest acquisition. It was by some French painter whose name Eddie butchered, and Richie had hung it for him, along with a black-and-white photo of the Brooklyn Bridge and the framed concert poster. Mike cooed over all three. "It's good, right? Yeah, Richie picked the frames. Yeah, he's got a good eye when he feels like it."

Richie, still waiting on the sofa for his phone to be returned to him, made an outraged noise. Eddie ignored him, although he did condescend to trail his fingertips along Richie's arm as he passed him by. "Oh by the way," Eddie said, oblivious to Richie shivering at his touch, "If you see any super ugly tchotchkes on your roadtrip, will you pick some up for Richie? The only decoration before I moved in was this three-foot mosaic toad statute—oh it's _exactly_ as ugly as you think—"

"Don't disparage my shit," Richie said. This made Eddie snort out a laugh. He was still laughing as he headed down the hall to show Mike his first and dearest love: the guest bathroom.

He left the door ajar, just enough that the tone of his voice was audible, if not his words. Richie could hear how proud he was, showing off the color, the careful lines, the new faucet he'd bought and installed with the help of a YouTube video and a socket wrench.

Richie waited impatiently for him to wrap up his little home tour. Eddie’s handiwork looked good, but Richie had planned and implemented this phone call all by himself, and Eddie had hijacked it. When at last Eddie returned, Richie stuck out his outstretched hand and waved it in Eddie's face. Rolling his eyes, Eddie obligingly handed the phone back to him. "Okay, talk to Richie," he said, leaning over Richie’s shoulder to address the camera one last time, "I have to take a shower, I can smell myself."

"You're a real prince," Richie said snottily, right as Mike said, "Bye Eddie! Say hi to Bill for me." Eddie grinned and squeezed Richie's bicep; Richie wasn't sure if he was in the camera's line of sight or not, and he wasn't sure if Eddie _knew_ if he was in sight or not, and he didn't know what he expected or wanted the answer to those questions to be, anyway.

Eddie went upstairs. Richie kept one eye on him as he ascended, just in case Eddie was in any pain. Mike, meanwhile, tactfully waited a long moment before he saying, "Richie. Correct me if I'm mistaken, but. He's painting your house?"

Richie nodded. "Yeah."

"And decorating. And replacing the cabinetry in the kitchen."

"Yeah, we haven't decided on that one yet," Richie said casually, as if the issue was the scope of Eddie's redecorations, and not the fact that he was redecorating at all. "He wants green cabinets."

"Green?" Mike repeated. But the look he gave Richie was searching. "Richie. He's decorating? He's just your close personal friend who lives in your house and decorates?"

"What, you don't want me to let him decorate?"

Mike sighed. "I want you to look after yourself, Richie."

"Who, little old me?" Richie said, in a Voice that, unfortunately, sounded like Elmer Fudd.

Mike was not fooled. He did not take the bait of the bad impression or Richie's big, cheerful, utterly fake grin. Which meant Mike knew, and Richie had long suspected that at least some of the Losers knew how he felt about Eddie, but now here it was: confirmation, in the form of Mike's knowing, gentle expression. "Yeah, Rich," he said quietly. "You."

Richie had not set up this call so that he could be analyzed. Unloading on Ben had been his one moment of desperate, radical honesty with himself for the year; anymore than that and he might explode. "Can we not talk about this?" he said desperately, "I wanna hear about the elk, man, and the big hole in the ground you drove all the way to Arizona for."

The problem with knowing someone since childhood was that it was easy to get sucked into the same old childish routines. Eddie wouldn't talk about his feelings, Richie couldn't get over his love for Eddie, and Mike wouldn't push. Bev would push; Stan might have, if he thought the reason was good enough. But not Mike. Mike was steady and solid and understanding to a fault, and he would let Richie be a coward.

So Mike let Richie change the subject. Mike let Richie babble at him about the summer tour and the traffic in LA and the insane price of dry-cleaning recently—normal things. And Mike showed him his photos from snowy Colorado and Monument Valley in the Navajo Nation. And they both pretended that there was nothing noteworthy happening in Richie's house. Or life. 

Before they said their goodbyes, Richie hesitated. "Mikey. You are—you're enjoying yourself, right, man?"

"Yeah," Mike said, but he paused a long time before continuing. "I just—I spent so much time alone, waiting, thinking about this trip. And it's good, but... I wish I had someone to share it with."

"If I didn't have a show in literally two days, I would come with you."

Mike smiled, only the least bit sadly. "I know, Rich. Thanks, man."

After hanging up, Richie didn't make any move to get up. He just sat on the leather sofa, listening to the droning of the air conditioning. Eddie had turned the shower off; he was probably getting dressed. He'd want to tell Richie about his day with Bill. Then he'd want lunch, and maybe to log onto work—just in case, he was always saying, just in _case_ the New York financial market went haywire and he was needed at 1:30pm on a Sunday.

Sighing, Richie stood. He retrieved the abandoned shopping bags and brought them to the kitchen. While he was sorting through them, Eddie came into the kitchen, his socked feet soundless on the tile. His hair was damp from the shower and he was wearing one of Richie's sweatshirts, because everything that belonged to Richie was up for grabs, apparently.

"Hey," he said. "You done talking to Mike? You want lunch?"

Nodding, Richie stood out of his way so that Eddie could root around in the fridge. Since Eddie's neck was right in from him, Richie inhaled deeply. "You smell good."

" _You_ smell good," Eddie countered. Blinking, Richie watched Eddie pull forth two neat Tupperware containers with last night's chicken and rice in them. 

"You're insane, you know that? I smell like an unwashed comedian."

"Yeah, and?"

Richie had no answer. He supposed his deodorant was reasonably strong, to compensate for his proclivity to sweat; maybe Eddie just liked pine freshness. He shrugged and turned back to the grocery bags. "And nothing, I guess."

"Look what I bought, by the way," Eddie said, nodding at the last bag. From it, Richie produced an enormous plastic bottle of honey, shaped like a bear. While he was staring at it—thirty-two ounces of honey?—Eddie hooked his chin over Richie's shoulder. "It's made from wildflowers. I made Bill buy some, because it's Bill's Bees, right, but he wanted avocado honey, and I'm not ready for that."

He smelled like sandalwood, and was warm and strong and very _close_ , and Richie had sort of intended to yell at him for being rude and a thief, but now his brain was mush. He turned the bottle over. "This is a lot of honey, honey." Then he winced at the petname. Why did he ever speak?

Eddie laughed against his back without noticing his tiny freak-out. "Yeah, I know. But the 16oz container was just shaped like a beehive, not the little bear. Besides, it's good to have honey in the kitchen. It's good in tea."

"You don't drink tea, Eds."

"Maybe I'll start! Whatever, it's not like it goes bad," Eddie said, digging his chin into Richie's shoulderblade. He was being defensive, because it had been a dumb purchase. They didn't use honey. They certainly would not use thirty-two ounces of it. Eddie had made a dumb impulse purchase he could not justify, and it was for a bunch of honey in a bear-shaped jar.

He was, Richie thought woefully, really _cute_. He was smart and funny and sexy as hell and Richie had been in love with him for thirty years, but it still bowled him over sometimes, how cute Eddie could be.

Eddie let go first, because the microwave beeped. "So," he said, taking out the plate and fluffing the rice with a fork. When Richie microwaved food, he didn't even wait til it was cooked all the way through, but Eddie diligently fluffed the grains before replacing it with the second plate. "How's Mike?"

"Good," Richie said. "He was telling me that his RV broke down in Colorado. Had to spend a week in fucking Telluride with rich yuppie assholes."

" _You're_ a rich yuppie asshole, Richie."

"Says you," Richie said. "You tried to give Mike your Escalade?"

Mike had mentioned this in passing, and Richie insisted on hearing the full story. In Mike's retelling, Eddie, newly separated and trying to liquidate the possessions that wouldn't fit in his suitcase, had offered him the Escalade. Outright, and when Mike had said no, Eddie had threatened to kick his ass if he didn't accept it. Which was a hilarious image—Eddie, medicated and with a half-healed, nearly-lethal puncture wound to the torso, threatening to kick _Mike's_ ass.

When Richie said this, Eddie went pink. "Shut up. He was going on a road trip! He needed a car!"

One of these days Richie needed to look at _Eddie's_ bank statements, because he was pretty sure an Escalade was a sixty-thousand dollar car. "He needed an RV, not a fucking Cadillac."

"Well, I sold it, and it made a pretty nice down payment for the RV, so I think it worked out in the end," Eddie said bitchily, hitching up the sleeves of his stolen sweater so he could jab ferociously at the microwave buttons. 

Richie didn't know what to make of the sweater. Eddie still struggled with temperature regulation, and he got cold in the air conditioning easily; that was why he was always wandering around in sweats and long-sleeved shirts. But that didn't explain why he was wearing _Richie's_ sweater. It was too big on him, rolled at the wrists and baggy at the shoulder, and Eddie had claimed to hate it just the other day. An eyesore, he'd called it. But here he was, wearing it.

Richie had had this daydream in high school, a lot: Eddie, wearing his sweaters, or sometimes his jackets. Living with Eddie, waking up in the same bed. Sharing a life together. But not like this, where they fucked and were friends and Eddie redecorated, and that was it.

"You ever think about getting a car?" he asked, so he wouldn't say something else.

Eddie shrugged without looking up. "Not really. I needed a car in New York, and Myra didn't know anything about cars, so I actually got to pick out the one I wanted. She hated how expensive it was, though. But I don't need a car here."

He turned and flashed a smile at Richie, although it looked strained. Richie would never, never understand him, or his marriage, or what he was doing here with Richie. "What if you want to go somewhere without me?"

He shrugged again. "Haven't so far."

"Well, if you ever do."

"Sure," Eddie agreed blithely. The microwave beeped and Eddie took the second plate out and set to fluffing the rice with a fork, just so. "You got the measurements done? After lunch, do you want to look at backsplashes with me?"

"Ugh," Richie said, resigning himself to another afternoon arguing with Eddie over his Pinterest boards, "Fine."

In gratitude, Eddie kissed him on the shoulder on his way to the couch.

+++

Richie's sixth comeback show went badly.

Very badly.

After the fact, he had no memory of how he survived it. It was only a half-hour set, but the last twenty minutes were a fucking blur. Among other problems, he'd gone drastically off book at some point. Instead of the story about his junior prom and the hapless girl from Stan's synagogue he'd roped into attending with him, he was definitely making tasteless jokes about his dad's funeral. Possibly he was even joking about his dad _dying_ , which had been the second worst day of his life, after the night in Neibolt where Eddie had almost died. That was how the show had gone: Richie, sweating bullets, spitting unhinged, awful jokes that made the audience cringe as much as they laughed.

He had never been so glad to hear, _give it up for Trashmouth!_ in his entire life.

Paulette was there to meet him backstage. Her mouth was pursed to a shiny red point. "They're still fucking calling me Trashmouth," he said, not pausing as he muscled the green room door open. Paulette followed; Richie ignored her and started to rip the sweaty button-down off his body. A seam splintered and gave way. Furious, Richie wadded the shirt up and threw it at the trash can. It missed.

"Richie—it wasn't even that bad—"

"That was a fucking disaster. Jesus Christ," Richie said. "Don't try to put fucking spin on it, that was literal and absolute shit, and you know it."

"Rich," Paulette said, hovering by the door while Richie, in just his undershirt, gathered his shit in a rage, "It was a one-alarm fire."

"Paulette, have you ever heard anything _good_ being described as a fire? No, because why the fuck would you have?"

He threw the rest of his things in his bag, including the traitorous Notebook. The cover was bent backwards, but Richie didn't care. He slung the bag on his shoulder and pushed past Paulette. Paying no mind to the PAs and other comics buzzing around, she stood there in the doorway and called after him, "Richie, what the fuck. Where are you going?"

"Home. I'll call you tomorrow."

At least he hadn't fired her. Not that he really wanted to fire her—he was the one who'd screwed up. He was pissed that the announcers still introduced him as Trashmouth but, honestly, who could blame them? After the vintage Trashmouth shit he'd pulled tonight, Richie would be lucky if he ever outran that nickname. At this rate it would cling to him like shit on a shoe. He'd die and still be Trashmouth.

Paulette called him three times as he drove home. The last time, she left a voicemail, which Richie listened to as he let himself in the house. "I am going to kill you where you stand, Tozier," she said, voice perfectly conversational. Richie kicked off his shoes viciously; they bounced against the wall and left a scuff. Great, Richie thought, Eddie would have another excuse to paint. "Because now I'm going to spend the rest of _my night_ begging the nice booker to have you back, when you could have just talked to him like a _grown-up_ —"

He deleted the message. It was very satisfying.

He found Eddie in the master bathroom, on his hands and knees, the aluminum tape measure in his hands. The tape measure was bright yellow, and it flashed in the dull overhead light as Eddie measured. He had a pencil behind his ear, which made him look both cute and faintly ridiculous. Richie, feelings still too big and complicated for nuance, said, "Hey."

Eddie turned. He smiled at Richie in surprise. "Hey. You're super early, how was the show?"

"What are you doing?"

"Measuring the shower," Eddie said, even though that was obvious. He got to his feet. Richie didn't bother offering him a hand, because Eddie was too proud to take it. "Why?"

"You're going to redo the shower now?"

"Well, not until the kitchen's done, but, I don't know. The shower head's too short, you know, there's no way you fit under it comfortably," Eddie said. He had been smiling, proud of himself, no doubt, for thinking up another way to trick Richie into tearing the house apart. But as he climbed to his feet, worry overtook his face. He reached out for Richie's arm. "Rich. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, shaking Eddie off. "You want to fuck?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He went back into the bedroom and immediately started stripping out of his clothes. He tossed his sweat-stained t-shirt at the hamper but didn't even bother with his jeans; he merely shoved them down and kicked them off. While he was working his socks off his feet, Eddie came to the bathroom doorway.

"Richie?" he said. He still had the pencil behind his ear. 

Richie took Eddie's face in his hands and kissed him. Eddie made a shocked noise that rumbled through his chest and into Richie's, and then he grabbed Richie by the hips. Richie took the hint and grinded his dick against Eddie's stomach, startling another gasp out of him.

When Richie pulled back to check, Eddie's eyes were huge. Richie felt dangerous and wild, like he might ruin things in one of a thousand ways. His hand was still on Eddie's face; his thumb caught the ridge of scar tissue on his cheek. Richie moved his thumb just enough to kiss Eddie's scar. "Get on the bed."

Eddie did so. 

Richie knew he was big. He knew he had shoulders and long legs and a barrel chest. He knew exactly what he looked like, had made his peace with it; he only cared about what his body could _do_. It was functional. Certain features looked nice under certain lighting, but for the most part, Richie didn't give a shit about his body at all. Except now, when he knelt at Eddie's feet and Eddie looked down at him with such naked _want_ that Richie had to hide his face on Eddie's thigh.

"Get your dick out," he said into Eddie's sweatpants, so he wouldn't have to meet Eddie's eyes.

Eddie complied, lifting his hips to wriggle his way free of his sweats. Richie helped—he pulled them off Eddie's ankles and tossed them away. He didn't bother with Eddie's shirt, but he did press the hem up an inch to kiss along Eddie's hipbones. His fingertips brushed against the feathered scar tissue that ran the length of Eddie's torso. Eddie, tightening his fingers on Richie's shoulders, let out a ragged breath.

"Richie," he said, "You don't have to if you don't want to—"

"I do want to," Richie said sharply. As if to prove it to himself, he peeled Eddie's boxers down his hips to his knees. Eddie started to say something else. He stopped talking when Richie slid his mouth down to the root of Eddie' cock and swallowed.

Richie was good in bed. He couldn't keep a boyfriend for love or money, but he'd had plenty of sex—some of it had even been mutually satisfying. But he wasn't trying to make it good. He was trying to choke himself on Eddie's dick. He swallowed, again and again, and when Eddie's hips snapped up, cutting off his air, Richie welcomed it.

"Fuck!” Eddie said, and then "Sorry," and he anchored his hands on the edge of the mattress. Richie could not say _no_ or even shake his head, so he just picked up Eddie's hand and dropped it on his head.

Eddie did not take the hint. Instead, he scraped Richie's hair off his face, tucking a lock of it behind his ear.

Stop, Richie wanted to say, but couldn't. He was not interested in Eddie being gentle or curious or sweetly considerate. He wanted the version of Eddie that appeared occasionally, the desperate one that would sink his teeth into Richie's lip or, when Richie did something especially good, yank at his own hair. Richie didn't particularly like having his hair pulled but he wanted it now. He wanted Eddie to rip him into a million pieces; maybe then he wouldn't have to think.

In service of this, Richie forced himself deeper onto Eddie's dick, pulling back to suck in quivering breaths and then trying again. He dug his fingers into the lean muscle of Eddie's thigh, steadying himself. With his other hand he pressed the flat of his palm against Eddie's stomach. Even through Eddie's shirt, he could feel Eddie's stomach shaking. Good, Richie thought, and took Eddie as deep as he could, then deeper.

Then he pulled off to cough unsexily into his hand. He'd way overshot it, going from sexy choking straight to actual choking, and he had to take a minute to hack his lungs up.

"Richie, _stop,_ " Eddie said.

Richie was mad at himself all over again. "I'm fine, dude," he said, breaking off in the middle of the word to cough. "It's just a blowjob, Jesus."

Eddie, unpersuaded, held Richie’s face in his hands. He seemed to come to some decision, peering down at him. "Richie, come up here."

"Why," Richie demanded angrily, even as he did as he was told. He climbed up onto the bed, ignoring his stiff knees and the dull ache in his throat. Eddie kissed him as soon as he was within reach, and even when he let go, he kept his hands there, pushing Richie's frizzed hair out of his eyes.

"Because I want to see your face," he said.

Who said things like that, in bed? Eddie's skills had grown with his confidence, but he wasn't _that_ good, that Richie would tolerate sappy shit like that. To express his annoyance, he bit Eddie on the shoulder. Hissing, Eddie lifted his hips to grind against Richie's stomach, his dick riding the crease of Richie's hip.

"Fuck," he said, "Richie. Can I finger you?"

Richie bit him again, more gently, but only just. He was getting his spit and tears on Eddie's t-shirt, but Eddie didn't seem to mind; he let out another breathy, hurt noise as Richie's teeth dug into the cotton of his shirt. Then he asked the question again. "Ugh, _fine_ ," Richie said, into the curve of Eddie's neck. "Like, whatever, don't have to ask me twice."

"I did ask you twice," Eddie reminded. Richie said it had been a joke, and Eddie said it hadn't been a funny joke. Richie said who was the expert here, and Eddie said who could tell with jokes like that, and that was how Richie ended up flat on his back, Eddie's wet fingers sliding inside him, while Richie told him knock-knock jokes.

"Please, shut up," Eddie said, pressing kisses along Richie's thighs and lower belly. He sounded so long-suffering. Eddie was working a second finger inside him now, so slowly, interspersing his careful thrusts with breathing warm and wet over the head of Richie's cock. "Please, Richie, I'm trying to get you off."

"Try harder," Richie said. "Knock knock, Spaghedward."

Eddie, sighing, dragged his open mouth down Richie's dick. "Who's there."

"Interrupting cow," Richie said, and then, "Oh, _fuck_ ," when Eddie nudged his prostate. Richie twisted his spine against the mattress, trying to get more of that feeling. "Right there, fuck."

Eddie laughed. "That's not how the joke goes."

Richie kicked him in the ribs, very gently. "Fuck you. You're supposed to say, ahh, 'Interrupting cow who?'"

Eddie laughed again. Richie did not, as a rule, enjoy being laughed at in bed, but Eddie was giggling so hard Richie could feel his sides shaking. Pink-cheeked, hair falling over his face in sweaty waves, he looked ridiculous, but his fingers were taking Richie apart, spreading him wide and rubbing hard over his prostate. Richie was going out of his mind with pleasure but he was laughing, too. He simply could not hold onto his anger while Eddie was panting out little laughs against his skin.

Richie kicked him again. "Eddie, the joke."

"Jesus Christ," Eddie said fondly, "Interrupting cow wh—"

"Moo," Richie said, and then he burst out laughing, and Eddie did too, and for a few minutes there was no fucking, just the two of them cackling like hyenas over the unfunniest joke in the world.

When Eddie collected himself, he crawled up Richie's body and kissed him. Richie, still chuckling weakly, let himself be kissed. It was nice to laugh into a kiss.

When Eddie pulled back, Richie said, "Your mouth tastes like my dick."

"God," Eddie said, nudging his glasses out of the way to kiss the damp skin beneath his eye, "You are a disgusting person."

That made Richie laugh too, but his dick was growing more insistent. Rocking his hips up against Eddie's stomach, he smeared a line of pre-come against the hem of Eddie's shirt. God, that shirt was going to be disgusting before they were done. "Come on, Eds, quit sitting around telling jokes and make me come, chop chop."

Groaning, Eddie pressed his face to Richie's chest. While he was there, he kissed Richie's pectoral, the curve of his ribs, the point of his sternum. "I fucking hate you, you know."

"You don't."

"I don't," Eddie agreed, and got back to work.

Eddie, the considerate motherfucker, wasted time pouring more lube on his fingers, when Richie was hot and needy and wanted it _right now_. He was so careful, reworking his fingers into Richie's hole; Richie's annoyance gave way to affection when Eddie started giving it to him harder. His fingers weren't that big, but he was good at this—he was so dedicated to getting Richie off. When he found Richie's prostate, Richie nearly choked on his own tongue. "Right there, Eddie, fuck."

When Eddie gave him three fingers, Richie moaned, long and loud. His thighs were shaking. Eddie traced his rim gently with his thumb, and a wild part of Richie imagined Eddie sliding four fingers inside him. His cock leapt, a bead of precome sliding down over his knuckles as he jerked himself off. "I'm close," he warned Eddie.

"Good," Eddie said, squeezing his hipbone with his free hand, hard enough that the bone ached. He zeroed in on Richie's prostate and rubbed _hard_ , sending lightning bolts zipping up Richie's spine, so good that Richie gasped despite himself. "Come on, Richie. Wanna see you come."

Richie lasted a few more strokes, then, with an undignified noise, came hard. Eddie made a strangled noise and said, "Jesus, Richie, you came so much—"

Richie managed to milk a few more spurts from his spent dick and then said, "You've killed me." Eddie ignored him as he gently pulled his fingers free; Richie shivered at the feeling. Then he kicked Eddie in the knee. "Get me a towel, on account of the fact that you murdered me."

Eddie laughed at him. Instead of a towel, he handed him the box of tissues. Richie supposed that would do. He dabbed at his soft dick and belly, hissing at the gentle stimulation; his dick was sore from how hard he'd come. The rest of him felt wrung out like a dishrag, or like he'd been flattened by a steamroller in an old cartoon.

"God," Eddie said, amused, as Richie lazily dropped the used tissues in the vicinity of the wastepaper bin, "You're going to make me do all the work, aren't you?"

"Yes I am."

Eddie laughed, but he also asked, "Can I at least kiss you while I jerk off?"

For whatever reason, Richie blushed. It was either the way Eddie was looking at him—absurdly tender, considering he also had his hand wrapped around his dick—or the sweetness of his words. Feeling almost shy, Richie turned his face and let Eddie kiss him.

Eddie kissed him hard and Richie, already exhausted from coming his brains out, did his best to meet him halfway. He didn't think he managed; after a few sloppy kisses, Eddie pulled back and kissed Richie on the cheek. "You're so fucking lazy," he said, adding a second kiss, and then a third. "You're the most come-dumb person I've ever met—"

In retaliation, Richie bit him on the neck. He knew Eddie liked being bitten, and predictably, Eddie _squeaked_. For a moment Eddie went rigid all over, and then he sagged, going lax under the pressure of Richie's teeth. This was the perfect level of engagement for Richie, sitting here and pulling on the thin skin at the base of Eddie's neck with his teeth, leaving what was sure to be an impressive bruise behind. He didn't have to think or move or even try very hard, and Eddie got off on it. Eddie seemed to like everything Richie did for him, but he especially liked this.

Between the hickey and the quick, brutal pace of his strokes, Eddie only lasted another minute or so. The face he made when he came was very stupid, and then he collapsed onto his side.

Mission accomplished, Richie fell back against the mattress, patting Eddie gently on the hip as he did so. Eddie, meanwhile, allowed himself ten seconds of afterglow. Then he was up, in search of towels.

Richie, as lazily contented a cat in a sunbeam, watched Eddie pick his way over to the bureau to dig out a clean t-shirt. Despite his curiosity, Richie shut his eyes while Eddie stripped out of the filthy shirt. Eddie was allowed to hate his body. Richie hated enough parts of himself; who was he to tell Eddie how to feel?

He kept his eyes closed, even as he heard the bathroom door opening and closing, the tap turning on, the sound of a wet washcloth dropping into the tub with a _thwap_. He didn't move at all until he felt the mattress dip under Eddie's weight. Absently he wondered if he could keep Eddie from asking questions by kissing him, but Eddie surprised him. While Richie was still debating moving, Eddie slid behind him, pulling Richie into the cradle of his arms.

Richie let himself be tugged. He was being spooned, he realized. Idiotically, he said, "Are you _spooning me_ , Eds?"

Eddie said, "Yeah. Deal with it."

Richie didn't object. Actually, he was thrilled. Richie, although a cuddler by nature, did not seem to attract other cuddlers towards him. Most of the guys he slept with didn't even stay over; the novelty of having Eddie, who slept in his bed every night, instigating this kind of embrace was unbearably good. 

He didn't get why Eddie was spooning him, but it was probably just one of those things. Physical touch was a psychological necessity. It stood to reason that Eddie wanted to spoon, sometimes. And since he was already sleeping with Richie, it made sense that he wanted to cuddle Richie, too. Richie could do that for him. It was no skin off his back to lie there in Eddie's arms, blissed out and relaxed, while Eddie ran careful fingers up and down his arms.

Then Eddie ruined it by saying, "So."

Richie froze.

"So," he said warily. If Eddie spoke with a even a trace of pity, he was prepared to bolt. The anger and self-revulsion that had propelled him to jump Eddie standing had waned, but they were still _there_. Richie was still disgusted by himself tonight; Eddie could distract him but he couldn't solve Richie's problems. If he tried, Richie would run for it.

Instead, Eddie surprised him by saying, "You don't have to tell me what's wrong." That was all—he didn't add anything else—but the implication was obvious. Eddie would listen, if Richie could force himself to speak.

Eddie was so odd. The whole night had been so odd—Richie had been a dick who had tried to use Eddie for sex, and Eddie was responding with gentleness and laughter. While Richie puzzled over this, Eddie nosed at the nape of his neck. There was no intent behind the gesture, or at least nothing sexual; if anything, Eddie reminded him of a friendly dog. He was poking around, mapping the contours of Richie's body, learning him.

Clumsily, Richie reached up to pat Eddie's wrist where it lay over Richie's chest. Eddie did not respond. The bastard seemed content to wait him out, perhaps indefinitely.

Richie ordered himself to stay calm. It had been one bad show, not the end of the world. "I had a horrible fucking show."

"What happened?"

Richie snapped, "I bombed, okay?"

So much for being calm.

Eddie didn't say anything. He inhaled and exhaled, slowly and steadily; Richie could feel it where the muscles of his chest pressed against his back.

There was no reason to be angry at Eddie. Eddie hadn't been there; it hadn't been his fault. Sighing, Richie tried again, less venomously this time. "It started out fine. People were kinda drunk, I guess, but not that drunk. Anyway this guy starts heckling me, which, whatever, it happens. But we're going back and forth and he keeps going, and I just slipped back into Trashmouth mode. Calling him a stupid ugly motherfucker, too fat and bald to ever get laid, and then his date yelled at me and, I went off on _her_ and I just—God. It was like nothing had changed."

He'd known he was fucking up even as he did it. The crowd had laughed, but uneasily. He heard shocked inhales of breath and that low rumbling of people turning to the person next to them, saying things like, _that's a little too far, there_. And Richie hadn't been a little past the line—he'd sprinted past the line and never looked back. Then, the cherry on top of this shit sundae, he'd started ad-libbing, rambling about his dead dad and the funeral and other assorted run-of-the-mill traumas.

The tip of Eddie's cold nose brushed against the curve of Richie's ear, just to the side of his hairline. "You know," he said, "You were Trashmouth with us first. I liked that Trashmouth."

"Why? I was the fucking worst."

"Nah. Sure, you talked a lot of shit—like, a _lot_ —but you were a Loser. You were one of us. You're Richie Tozier," Eddie said. He said the name _Richie Tozier_ reverently, like it was someone worth being. Reaching up, he gently combed his fingers through Richie's hair. "And Richie Tozier's pretty alright."

Richie was being soothed. He was aware that Eddie was trying to make him feel better, trying to settle him down, but he didn't resent it.

Richie had once spent a summer fucking a self-described empath who used _active listening skills_ every time they disagreed on anything. Richie had loathed that guy—he would have wished for his death had the sex not been electrifying—and he had just given up on expecting the guys he slept with to understand him, much less care about his feelings. But Eddie was different. Obviously he was, but he was different in this way, too. Richie would let Eddie reassure and validate him, even if he had trouble believing it. Hell, Richie lay there in Eddie's arms, preemptively mourning the fact that he was going to lose this. Someday Eddie wouldn't be around to do this, and Richie would have to make do with weirdos like the empath guy.

Or, worst of all, his own emotional fortitude—of which he had none.

"I should be in therapy," he concluded.

Without missing a beat, Eddie said, "Yes." Betrayed, Richie stared over his shoulder at him, and Eddie laughed, but not unkindly. "Sorry," he said, running his fingers through Richie's limp curls. "But, yeah. Therapy's good. I mean, it fucking sucks, there's _nothing_ I hate more than having to talk about what I'm feeling, but. Yeah. It's helpful."

"I know." Richie really did. He sighed. "I was an asshole to Paulette, too."

"Yeah," Eddie agreed. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Grovel?"

Eddie laughed and pressed closer to him. They were deeply intertwined but Eddie wriggled closer still. "Good plan," he said. When Richie frowned into the mattress, not at all comforted, he continued, "Hey. It's one show. You're still the funniest motherfucker I've ever met. And Paulette'll probably forgive you. Buy her an apology gift to sweeten the deal."

"A gift? I don't know what women like."

"I don't either," Eddie admitted.

Richie laughed, even though his stomach still felt tight and woozy. He let himself fully relax into Eddie's arms. Maybe—just maybe—vulnerability wasn't _that_ bad. "How about," he said, "I get her a mosaic toad statue?"

"Perfect," Eddie said, brushing a kiss shaped like a smile onto Richie's bare shoulder, "I've got one I've been trying to get rid of."

+++

The radio was blasting as Richie pulled up to Bill Denborough's new townhouse in Pacific Palisades. Richie sang along until he reached the house. Then he turned off the engine, and Chrissy Hynde's voice died mid-note.

He made no move to get out of the car, though. Just sat there, staring up at the house. It was beautiful—an elegant facade behind a row of greenery that separated the private drive from the road, a red-tile roof that complimented the geraniums blooming in terra cotta planters along the steps. It looked nothing like Bill's old place, the mansion in Brentwood. Richie and Eddie had spent the holidays there, partaking in a weird melange of Christmas and Hanukkah traditions that were greatly improved by alcohol and Facetiming the other Losers. But Bill had sold that house a few months back, then moved in here. Bill had extended invitations many times over, but Richie always put him off. This was his first time seeing it.

Richie looked over his shoulder, expecting someone to yell at him for parking his car here. But there was no one—just the manicured trees, trembling in the breeze. The townhouse complex had a security guard posted at the entrance to the neighborhood, but Richie didn't know if they handed out parking tickets.

A tap on the window. Richie looked up, saw Bill's face right outside the window smiling at him, and jumped. He whacked his head, hard, on the roof of the car. Bill's smile widened into a broad grin. "Were you going to come inside or just sit in the driveway?"

Richie opened the door; Bill stepped back gracefully to let him. The man was wearing straight-legged black denim and a plaid button-down. Richie, who had started to sweat the instant he'd turned the car off, gave Bill a pointed stare that hopefully communicated his opinion on Bill's sartorial choices. "I was gonna text to let you guys know I'm here, I'm not an animal."

Bill laughed. "You should come in," he said, beckoning Richie to the house, "Eddie's just getting dressed."

Richie snorted and slid out of the car. "You know those old Monty Python sketches where the guy gets home and his wife's screwing the milkman? That's what this feels like."

"I'm the milkman?" Bill said, amused.

"Nah, Eddie is. You're the wife, short-stack."

Bill rolled his eyes. He looked good, Richie thought. The gray in his hair had spread post-Derry, but on Bill it made him look distinguished. Wise. He had the kind of face that looked equally good on book dust jackets and glancing over his shoulder at Richie in the late evening sunshine. "We were in the pool, asshole."

Richie nearly tripped up the steps. "You got Eddie to swim?" he demanded, astonished and _jealous_.

At the top of the stairs, Bill paused to fumble out a key ring with two single keys on it. It was the simplest ring of keys Richie could imagine: a front door and a car key. Just that, nothing else. Bill unlocked the door and then stepped back, ushering Riddie in. "It was Eddie's idea."

Richie's first thought, upon entering, was, _did Eddie swim shirtless?_ His reflexive jealousy of Bill flared to life in an insant. Had Eddie taken off his shirt in front of Bill? His second thought was whether it was better or worse if he wouldn't undress in front of Bill. Was he comfortable with Bill in a way he wasn't with Richie, despite the sex? Did Eddie hate his scars that badly? Was he planning on never being naked in front of another person, ever again? Only when Richie was ten feet into the house did his brain come back online.

He stopped short, awed. "Holy shit, Big Bill."

"It's nothing," Bill said, shutting the door behind him. "But thanks."

It was not nothing. If the front was beautiful, the inside was stunning. The back wall was a sheer facade of glass, framed with billowing white curtains, sunlight streaming in. The furniture was luxurious leather and brass. The hardwood floor was such a rich, vibrant chestnut-red it seemed to be lit from within.

Had Richie closed his eyes and pictured a celebrity's house, this is what he would have seen.

Even the Brentwood house hadn't been this nice. True, Richie had only seen it in disarray, half-packed up in preparation to sell, but Bill had lived there with an actual movie star and it hadn't been half so beautiful. The Brentwood house was just a big house, full of junk; this was something else altogether.

"Eddie must have picked you some really good investments," Richie observed. Bill laughed; he offered Richie a drink. He declined, content to look around.

While Richie pored over the fireplace, Bill sat in one of the leather wingback chairs, elbows on knees. "How are you? It's been a while."

"Good, good," Richie said. "God, this place looks amazing."

"Thanks," Bill said, off-hand. He seemed pleased by the compliment but only absently, as if the way his house looked was an incidental benefit, barely worth noticing. "One of these days I want to invite everyone out here. I have the space."

"Yeah. Mike's in Arizona, maybe he'll swing by."

"Maybe. You talk to him a lot?"

"Some," Richie said, trailing a finger along the delicately filigreed fireplace screen. It was immaculate, not a spot of soot. "Talked to him last week, maybe the week before. He seems happy. Really enjoying his road trip."

"Yeah. He seems that way," Bill said, sounding wistful.

When Richie turned around to look at Bill, he was surprised by how small Bill looked. It wasn't his small stature or even the heft of the chair—he suddenly looked lost. It was the room's fault, Richie realized. Despite its beauty, it wasn't quite right. For all the elegance of the decor and the furnishing, the room was cold. Something was missing—some trace of Bill.

While Richie fumbled, awkwardly, for something to say, Bill said, "So, did you ever hear from the _Suspension_ people? I passed your name on to the writing team, told them they should call you up."

"Oh. Yeah," Richie said, feeling pinned, "I heard it was you who gave them my name."

"Did you take the meeting?"

"Yeah, scheduled for a few weeks from now." Richie had gotten Paulette a gift after all; she'd twisted his arm until he, at last, agreed to the meeting. "But I figure I'm not an actor, just a foul-mouthed comedian and sometime axe murderer."

Bill's mouth turned down. More of his hair had gone gray than Richie had first realized; it caught the light when Bill turned his head. "I was worried because of that," he said. "Because of all the killing. But I also thought you'd be really good in it, Richie."

Despite himself, Richie was touched. Killing Henry Bowers with an axe was somehow the least interesting thing that happened to him in Maine; most of the time he almost forgot about it. It reared up at him in weird, quiet moments, seizing him by the throat and shaking him like a ragdoll, but mostly it was dormant. Mostly it was the least of his problems.

He had thought he resented Bill for passing his name along, but now, in front of Bill, in his beautiful, lonely house, he thought it was sweet. Bill was sweet, both for thinking of him and for worrying. If Richie bore any ill-will towards Bill, it was because of a thirty-year-old jealousy, not because of anything Bill had ever done.

He forced himself to smile. "Well, if I book the show, God forbid, I'm not going to lose my shit in front of them or anything. That's what therapy is for."

"You're in therapy?" Bill asked, brightening.

"No. But I should be."

"Oh." Bill sat back in his chair, then shrugged. "Well, we all should be." 

Richie laughed humorlessly. "Eddie's in enough therapy for both of us."

Was Bill lonely? That was the question on Richie's mind. It was too big a question to ask, in Bill's quiet house with its gleaming hardwood floors and beautiful windows, but Richie wanted an answer anyway. There were things in the house—the leather chairs in a buttery shade of brown; books of every type and genre, filling the built-in bookcases cheek-to-jowl; even a typewriter, because Bill was _that_ kind of writer. It wasn't half-empty the way the Brentwood house had been; there were objects and furniture and everything matched. But strangely, the clutter and mess of the Brentwood house had been better than this. Despite the beauty, there wasn't enough Bill here.

Bill, oblivious to Richie's worries, stood up. "He seems better, though," he said, pushing his hands into his pockets. "A lot better."

"Yeah," Richie said. "He's redoing the entire house. It started with spackle, but just the other day I caught him measuring my shower. I'm gonna come home one day and we'll have a pool, he'll just dig it while I'm at work."

"It's good for him to have a project. I think he thought Myra would fight him more."

"Did he want her to?" Richie said. "I thought she was the Wicked Witch of the East Village."

"I don't know. It's complicated. It's good that he's keeping busy, though," Bill said, shrugging. When he looked at Richie, Richie remembered suddenly that Bill had always done this—always scrutinized people with a single glance, like he was peering inside of you. "You are too, I hear. You're getting really good reviews, I'll have to come see it. Eddie wants to, too."

Eddie's not allowed to, Richie thought but did not say, because if he had to be that honest in front of him, he was sure he'd die. Instead, he shrugged and said, "Okay, I can get you on the list, but don't think this means I like you or anything."

"You like me," Bill said, with quiet confidence. "We went through trauma together. We bonded."

"Oh sure, we kill one clown demon together, but you don't invite me over for your special divorced guy hangouts? I see how it is."

Bill laughed. "You wouldn't understand. Getting divorced changes you."

"I could be divorced, you know. Many, many women have told me to get lost over the years," he said, and Bill rolled his eyes even as he smiled. Not that Richie cared—he heard Eddie's footfalls on the stairs and turned just as Eddie descended into the living room.

"Being divorced is a special fraternity," Eddie said, by way of greeting, "Bev's making us jackets."

He had a towel in his hands, dabbing at his hair so that it stood up in a dark, frizzy shock, unmoored from the gel he used. Despite his usual insistence on sunscreen, the tops of his ears and cheeks were burnished red. He looked ridiculous, in his polo shirt and clashing shorts, his sunburn and his big, goofy grin.

Richie's heart leapt anyway.

Eddie threw himself into the other wingback chair, across from Bill. Bill grinned at him; Richie, meanwhile, kicked him very lightly in the shin. "Oh, so you gotta haze me before I can join?"

Eddie rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Rich, the hazing is you pay a dickhead in a suit thirty thousand dollars so he can crawl up your ass about every dime you've ever spent. Zero out of ten, don't recommend."

"Eddie, you did that to me for fun," he reminded him. To Eddie's left, Bill let out a short bark of laughter.

"I did it because you're so bad with money. I couldn't let you live like that."

Richie might not have had Bill Denborough levels of cash to burn, but he thought he was okay with money. Eddie was just a bossy little asshole who took pleasure in involving himself in other people's business. Sadly, Richie was wild for him. Too wild to even keep his hands to himself—he reached out to fiddle with Eddie's shirt collar and Eddie slapped his hands away. Grinning, Richie did it again and got slapped harder this time.

With all the tolerance of an older brother, Bill watched this happen. He seemed in no hurry to rush them out; Eddie wasn't in a rush, either. They might have stayed all night had Richie not yawned halfway through Bill's retelling of some story about his New York literary agent. "Richie, what the fuck, are you tired?" Eddie said. "We should go, I don't want Richie falling asleep at the wheel."

Bill followed them out to the driveway. The temperature had dropped ten degrees, and it was almost cool in the shade of the elegant trees that surrounded Bill's house like a living wall. Bill stood on the porch and waved. "Come over and swim sometime, Richie."

Richie waved back at him. "One of these days."

He had to wait for Eddie to settle in. Richie's car was little and speedy and low-slung, but most of the time, that didn't give Eddie any trouble. Today, though, he moved gingerly, lowering himself into the seat and then taking a long breath before he reached for the seatbelt. Richie watched this happen, unsure what to say. Bill was still on the porch, hands in his pockets again, waiting for their departure.

Eddie was still struggling. "Eds—" Richie started to say.

"I can do it, Richie," Eddie said.

At last he fed the buckle into the clasp and sat back in his seat, his breathing coming in soft pants. Richie pretended nothing was happening. With one last wave to Bill, he turned the engine on. They crunched down the gravel drive, out to the highway. As he pulled into the flow of traffic, Richie said, voice breezy, "You went swimming?"

"I know how to swim."

"Obviously. I was just surprised. Because—"

Because of his scar, Richie didn't say. He had run his fingers over the raised skin on Eddie's back and chest, in the dark or through Eddie's shirt, but he hadn't seen it. Eddie still wouldn't let him. It had been over a month since the divorce and the couch blowjob, and Eddie had kept his shirt on every time. Sometimes, if it was particularly hot, he'd strip down to a thin undershirt, but never less. 

"Well," Eddie said, staring out the passenger window at the mansions sliding by, "I'm not breaking any records for speed, but yeah. I can keep my head above water."

"No, because—forget it," Richie said. It wasn't worth it. Eddie probably swam in a t-shirt. Richie was overthinking things, yet again. "You guys had fun?"

"Yeah. Was good hanging out with Bill," Eddie said, in the same breath as, "Do you feel like my mom?"

Richie, shocked, whipped his head away from the road so abruptly the steering wheel jerked and the car tried to follow. "Do I _what_?" he said, wrenching the wheel straight again.

Eddie, undisturbed by the near-crash, just shrugged. He looked somewhere between serene and blank, his mouth a pinched line across his face. Perhaps unconsciously, he pressed his knuckles into his left shoulder, kneading at the muscle. "You know, coming to get me? Do you remember how Sonia would try to drive me everywhere, all the time? Like there was anywhere worth going that I couldn't bike to."

"You said you didn't want a car."

"I don't want a car," Eddie said, and cryptically left it at that.

"Okay so, fine, what's the problem? You _know_ I'll always come get you if you need."

"But I don't _need_. I just wanted you to." Eddie sighed, knocked his forehead against the window. "Maybe she was right about me."

Richie stared out at the road in front of them, watching the car eat up the tarmac that shimmered in the late evening sun. He did _not_ feel like Sonia Kaspbrak, because Sonia had been entirely wrong about Eddie, about everything. Eddie wasn't weak. He wasn't needy, or delicate, or deformed. He was just Eddie.

"What do you want me to say, Eds?" he said, voice tight. "Because I can't be civil about your mom, you know I can't."

Eddie sighed again, then tipped his head up to stare at nothing. "Sorry."

Richie really was going to crash the car. "Why are you sorry?" he demanded. "Did Bill say something?"

"What? No," Eddie said. "No, Bill didn't say anything. Are you mad at Bill or something?"

"Why would I be mad at _Bill_?"

"Because you never come when I go see him?"

Richie wanted, very badly, to punch the dashboard. "Are we seriously fighting about this?" he demanded.

"No. Fuck, Richie. I just—he bought this house and he's decorating it the way _he_ wants to, and I just... moved in."

Every time Richie thought he understood the conversation, Eddie yanked it sideways. "I asked you to move in," Richie reminded him.

"I know. I _know that_. But I feel—" He broke off, shrugged again, picked at the seatbelt with his nails. "Like I blew up your life. Moving in, making you move the bed downstairs, then moving into _your_ room, and now the renovations. Making you drive me around everywhere, fuck. I just showed up and blew everything up."

It took everything in Richie not to pull the car over. As much as he wanted to look Eddie in the eye for this conversation, it was merciful that Eddie wasn't looking at him. "I didn't have a life before you came here."

There was no comparing the two. It had been less than a blank canvas before—it had been a void.

"You had a career. And a house."

Richie shook his head. "It was just a house, Eddie."

Eddie laughed sourly. "And now it's a home?"

He gripped the steering wheel so tight the tendons in his hands ached. "Don't make fun of me," he said.

"I'm not." But Eddie sounded softer than before. He was looking at Richie now, his face flashing in and out of focus as oncoming traffic painted squares of light along his jaw. Richie didn't dare look at him.

Eddie had come here to convalesce, but Richie was the one who'd ended up needing Eddie. Leaving aside Richie's stupid, overinvested heart, Eddie had taken a look at the cave he'd been living in and announced that he could do better. Every few days he hung up a new picture frame, or bought some small trinket to put in the bathroom vanity or by the kitchen sink. He was painting the walls bright, fresh colors; he had carefully spackled and sealed any lingering holes. Before, with the brown carpet and the dingy paint, it probably looked a million times worse than Bill's house. At least Bill's house was beautiful—Richie's had been four walls and a roof, nothing more.

"Los Angeles is better with you in it," Richie said. "My life is better with you in it. And everything you've done to the house looks good. I would tell you if it didn't."

For a long time, Eddie said nothing—just looked at him. At last, he touched Richie's hand. "You really mean that?"

Richie did not move his hand. Eddie's fingers were slightly cold, but soft. "Obviously I fucking do, Eddie."

"Okay," Eddie said, still in that same gentle tone. "So let me buy the green cabinets, then."

Taken aback, Richie burst out laughing. "God, you're so fucking annoying! I told you I'd think about it!"

Eddie laughed too. He was still holding Richie's hand. "You're not mad at me?" he asked. Richie shook his head no, but Eddie wasn't satisfied. "Or Bill?"

Richie sighed. He had never been mad at Bill; that wasn't the problem. It wasn't even that he was jealous of Bill, although he was, even after all these years. "I'm not mad at Bill."

"Then why don't you ever hang out with us?"

"I want you to have your own life. I'm not like fucking Sonia, okay? You should have your own friends."

"But it's _Bill,_ " Eddie said. "And Richie, I have friends. I have all of you."

The use of the word _friends_ was quietly devastating, but Richie tried to keep the anguish off his face. Forcing himself to smile, he shook his hand free of Eddie's and patted him on the knee. "Well, I want you to have somewhere to go when I piss you off."

Unimpressed, Eddie snorted. "Jesus, Rich, when you piss me off I'll just yell at you. Or, I don't know, sleep downstairs. Or I'll just be a fucking grown-up and get over it."

Richie didn't know if he believed that. What he did believe was that he had a year, at the outside, while Eddie rebuilt his life. That was probably too generous an estimate, but he liked the roundness of it. He especially liked that a year was far, far in the future. Regardless of the exact date, Eddie would have to move on, someday. When he had finished redecorating and learning to cook and having meaningless sex with Richie, he would start his real life and go. But until then, Richie would try not to piss Eddie off, because he didn't want Eddie to leave his bed one day sooner than he had to.

Eddie, oblivious to Richie's anxious calculations, added, "He misses you as much as you miss him, dumbass."

"Okay," Richie said, sighing and shaking his head. There were worse trials then hanging out with Bill, who he did love, after all. "Fine. I'm not going to the farmer's market, though."

"Fucking snob," Eddie said, but he was grinning, the dimples popping out in both cheeks.

Richie smiled too. "Hipster piece of shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: richie has a heckler at one of his shows and taunts said heckler in fatphobic and, it is implied, misogynistic ways; several mentions of richie's dead dad and eddie's near death; in order to cope with his anxiety, richie initiates rough oral sex with eddie and ignores his own physical limits before eddie puts a stop to it, but they go on to have much more affectionate and gentle sex; mentions of therapy and canonical axe murdering; discussion of eddie's scars, appearance and physical abilities; and a long conversation about the lasting legacy of sonia kaspbrak's abusive parenting.
> 
> Bill's Bees is a real company! i forget if they existed in 2017, but let's pretend they did, and if you're in LA you can purchase their honey at various farmer's markets, or get it shipped to you. the painting eddie shows mike over facetime is Cezanne's Mont Sainte-Victoire as Seen from Bellevue. i'll leave it up to you how eddie pronounces Cezanne.
> 
> i would love to promise that the next two chapters will go out promptly on schedule, but, uh, there's an election happening, i may lose the will to live. tbd! however both chapters are 80% written so expect them roughly soonish.


	5. "So Sweet", c. 1958, 27" x 22"

Richie woke to the sound of the shower. It was a pleasant way to wake up; Richie stirred awake in a patch of sun in a bed that smelled like Eddie, the hiss of water striking tiles audible even through the closed door. Richie blinked groggily and rubbed his face on the sheets. It was eight o'clock. Eddie, a certified freak who now rose without an alarm clock so it wouldn't annoy Richie, would want to be at his computer in half an hour.

Still yawning, Richie climbed out of bed and went downstairs. The stack of art pieces that Eddie hadn't yet decided on was leaning at a perilous angle at the bottom of the stairs; Richie adjusted it with the side of his foot. He picked up the creased paperback that Eddie had abandoned last night and tucked it onto the coffee table, a receipt marking Eddie's place. Then he moved the toad from its perch on the bookshelf to the TV stand, so that Eddie would notice it later and shriek at him. The toad's top hat was askew; Richie perched it jauntily upon the toad's mosaic head.

The kitchen was still in progress, but the coffee maker was accessible. Richie ignored the chaos and got down the grounds and filters. The Home Depot people were coming at the end of next week to yank the cabinets out and replace them with brand new, emerald green ones. Somehow, Eddie had talked him into it. A green kitchen. Richie shook his head as the coffee machine started to hiss and drip.

Love made you crazy, evidently.

He went upstairs again, intending to fall back asleep. But as he reentered the room, yawning wide enough to make his jaw crack, he realized the water was off. Just to be rude, he yelled, "There's a drought, you know," as he crawled into bed.

"Yes, Richie, I listen to the news," came Eddie's response.

Richie, unable to let him have the last word, said, "I meant in this bedroom, baby."

The door opened. Eddie came out, in his normal work outfit of a nice polo shirt and his ratty, worn-in sweatpants. "One day is a drought?" he said, rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

For all that Richie meant to fall immediately asleep again, he sat up and ogled Eddie. Eddie blushed but didn't look away. "First of all, it's been two, the last time was Tuesday morning," Richie said, because proper accounting mattered—Eddie, of all people, should know this. "Secondly, no, I'm just being an asshole."

Eddie didn't laugh. Eddie, quite purposefully, looked at Richie's bare chest and then at the clock. Amazed, Richie said, "Really? You wanna?"

"Maybe," Eddie said, but he didn't sound like he was wavering. He squinted at the time again and then exhaled through his nose. "Okay, sure. But come on, I'm waiting on a package and then I gotta log onto work."

"I'll give you a package, Eddie," Richie leered, which would have been funnier had he not been struggling out of his pajama pants at the same time.

"Goddamn it," Eddie said, his words blunted by fondness, "Why am I sleeping with you?"

At last Richie freed himself from his pants. Eddie stood there shaking his head at him, just out of reach, so Richie hauled him in by the waist. "Brain damage?" he suggested, wriggling out of his boxers as well.

Instead of dignifying that with an answer, Eddie climbed into his lap. 

He was wearing too many clothes. He was _always_ wearing too many clothes, like a sexy little present that Richie had to unwrap time and time again. Eddie hissed out a breath as Richie coaxed the string ties of his sweatpants out of the careful knot he'd tied; then Richie got lost spanning Eddie's hipbones with his hands. Every part of Eddie was compact and sleek and lightly freckled, but the two inches of his lowest stomach were glorious. His skin was so soft there. The very bottom of his scar peeked out when Richie rucked the hem of his shirt up, but Richie didn't push—he just dug his fingers into Eddie's lower back, hard enough that Eddie made a bitten-off noise into the hollow of Richie's throat.

"You wanna ride me like this?" Richie said, voice low, as he stroked over the gentle valleys between Eddie's ribs beneath his shirt.

Eddie huffed. "You think I have the core strength for that? Fuck no."

"Fair," Richie said, pressing kisses to Eddie's hairline, where he was already beginning to sweat. "What do you want? We're on the clock here."

Eddie shook his head, then ducked to kiss Richie. "As sexy as it is to be on a deadline," he said against Richie's mouth, "Just fuck me on my back like a normal person."

Richie could not tell if Eddie meant it or not—Eddie _did_ love planning—but there really was something undeniably sexy about being on a deadline. He liked lazily wasting an entire weekend morning in bed; he especially liked when Eddie would faux-casually bring up something he wanted to try and they'd take it very slowly, moving at Eddie's pace until he got the feel for it. But he loved it like this, too, when it was both everyday and urgent. He needed to kiss Eddie or he'd die, but if they ran out of time, the worst thing that would happen was Eddie would be merely on time, rather than early, to work.

He settled Eddie in the middle of the bed, on his back, sweats and boxers kicked off somewhere while Richie drizzled lube over his fingers. "I thought we were on a deadline," Eddie complained, as Richie rubbed his fingers together to warm it before touching Eddie's bare skin. "If you make me late, Richie, I swear to God—"

"Shut up," Richie said simply, kissing Eddie to underline his point. Eddie's hole was soft and yielding under his fingers, and when he pushed in Eddie went lax against the mattress. "There you are," Richie said, and Eddie groaned and threw his arm over his face.

"You smug bastard," he hissed. Richie laughed, rolling Eddie's balls in his cupped hand. 

"You like that I'm smug."

"It's the brain damage," Eddie said, mock-sadly, and then he moaned, high and cut-off, when Richie twisted his fingers inside him.

Richie loved Eddie so much, but he really, really loved having sex with him. He loved the way Eddie tried, and failed, to be quiet; he loved how Eddie never shut up, even with Richie's fingers inside him. When Richie had stretched him wide on three fingers, he decided to indulge himself and work Eddie up a little, rubbing in circles over his prostate. Eddie liked that—Eddie like that so much his dick jerked, precome running thick over the head.

"Oh, fuck," Eddie said, reaching down to catch the glob of precome before it could drip onto his polo, "I'm gonna ruin my shirt."

"Sexy," Richie said, approvingly. "Unless you want me to put a tarp down?"

"A tarp? Jesus Christ, I hate you," Eddie said. Grinning, Richie leaned away, intent on fishing out a spare blanket to shield his shirt, but Eddie stopped him with a hand to the chest. "Wait," he said. "Let me—"

His fingers were shaking as he grabbed his polo by the collar and yanked it. Richie realized what was about to happen as it happened. He had no time to prepare—all of a sudden Eddie had worked the shirt off his body, letting Richie see him for the first time since Maine.

Richie simply did not know where to look first. Everywhere. The scar was huge, easily bigger than the palm of Richie's hand, and it feathered out in all directions, but especially down. In Bangor, it had been an open wound, covered in bandages and clucked over by the in-home nurse. Most of a year later, it was healed, an irregular jag that carved from mid-chest almost to Eddie's navel. It looked deadly. It looked terrifying. But Eddie looked good. Eddie was holding himself very still, trembling from the effort, eyes fixed at some point just over Richie's shoulder—but his face and his body were exactly as beautiful as Richie had always thought they were.

"Eddie," he said helplessly.

Eddie shook his head. "If you say a fucking word, I'll kill you."

Richie could work with that.

Kissing Eddie's cheek, he said, "Get on your side." Eddie did so, making a raw noise of relief when he turned. He didn't have to look at himself, but Richie wanted to. Richie pushed Eddie's leg up slowly, opening him up, kissing the bare curve of Eddie's shoulder. There were freckles there, as small and delicate as the ones on the bridge of Eddie's nose. Richie bit down on that same spot as he slid the condom on. Eddie, in response, made a tremulous noise between his teeth.

"Richie—"

"I got you, baby," Richie promised, and slid inside him.

It was the same sex, objectively, that they'd been having for weeks now. They had fucked while Eddie was shirtless plenty of times, but always in the dark; it was unreal how different it was to see all of him in daylight. Richie fucked Eddie slowly and carefully like it was the first time. He worried Eddie's nipples to tight points, admiring the texture, how different it was from the scar tissue just below it. He ran his big hands over the slats of Eddie's ribcage, testing the strength of his muscles there. Eddie kept his eyes so tightly closed Richie would have been worried, had he not been making his usual choked, almost hurt-sounding noises, rubbing his dick against the mattress.

Richie came first, obviously. It was possibly the sexiest thing he'd ever seen, Eddie hot and shaking and working his hips back onto his dick in tiny movements. Richie narrowly avoided leaving a bitemark the size of Jupiter on Eddie's throat as he came inside him. Wiped, he knocked his forehead into Eddie's shoulder, just for a minute. Then, because Eddie was so good and so brave and so fucking sexy it ought to be _illegal_ , Richie started to jerk him off. "You have two minutes before I go catatonic," he warned him, "So you'd better come."

Eddie clenched around Richie's soft dick, knocking a shiver out of him. "You and your fucking deadlines," he grumbled, even as he fucked into Richie's hand.

It was more than two minutes, but Richie was feeling half-delirious with affection, so he let it go.

He kissed the back of Eddie's neck as he pulled out. "Blergh," Eddie said into the mattress, and rolled all the way over, away from the wet spot, face-down into the sheets. Richie laughed, leaving one last kiss at the top of Eddie's spine. He thought he probably set a land-speed record for the fastest disposal of a condom in history, because in seconds, he was back in the bed, cuddled up to Eddie's warm, naked back. Eddie had left him very little space, but Richie didn't mind; he just clung to Eddie like a limpet.

Eddie turned his face enough that they could sort of kiss, Richie's mouth sliding across Eddie's freshly-shaven jaw. "God," Richie said, peppering all his available skin with kisses. "You are fucking incredible, you know that?"

Eddie, being Eddie, rolled his eyes dismissively, but he didn't pull away, didn't cover up. "Don't take this the wrong way," he said, "But this is easily the best sex of my life."

Richie didn't answer, too busy tracing the bumps of Eddie's bare spine. Where the exit wound had been deepest, the scar tissue was thick and ropy, pink even after so many months. The rest of Eddie's back was pale, flecked with freckles. The warmer tan of his upper arms and neck faded along his back until it was the same lighter shade as his ass and upper thighs, where the sun didn't reach. There was no way Eddie took his shirt off to swim, not if he was this pale. No, this was something Eddie had only shown Richie. Feeling tender and thrilled and—if he was being honest—more smug than he had ever been, Richie trailed his finger between freckles, writing cursive on Eddie's skin. "The wrong way?"

Eddie squinted over his shoulder at him, still smiling. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Okay, I won't," Richie lied, and ruined it by grinning so wide his face hurt.

He kept moving his hands all over Eddie's warm skin. Eddie sighed in contentment, his face pillowed on his crossed arms.

He perked up, though, when he heard a car pulling up outside. "That's the UPS truck," he said, rolling over onto his stomach and sitting up, wincing as he did so. He shook off Richie's concern and grabbed the shirt he'd tossed to the floor, cramming it onto his body as fast as possible. Then he hopped into his sweats, flinging Richie's pajamas at his face. "Come on, Rich."

Richie jammed his legs into his pajamas and followed him, despite his confusion. "Do I have to sign for this?" he said, trailing behind Eddie on the stairs. "What the hell did you buy, Eddie?"

"Shut up and come find out."

The package was long and square and thin, thin enough that the delivery-person slid it through the gate like a letter in a mail slot. Richie went out barefoot and retrieved it. It was art—obviously it was art. It was shaped like a picture frame, and Eddie was predictable. He'd been buying art for weeks. When Richie returned inside, Eddie was kneeling up on the couch, face lit up like a kid on Christmas at the box in Richie's hands. "Open it!"

Richie obliged. He sat down first, next to Edie, Eddie's knees under Richie's thighs and his chin on Richie's shoulder. It was hard to open the box with Eddie invading his space, but Richie persevered. When he ripped the side open, the frame slid out an inch or two. "It's a picture frame," he said.

" _Open it_ ," Eddie insisted.

He wondered what it would be. Recently, Eddie had bought two Van Gogh prints and a modern piece that was all smudgy colors, but it was hard to predict what he would like—a few weeks ago he'd bought five paintings of ocean landscapes and finally returned them all. Plus, there was the stack of frames at the front door, too, the things Eddie was still "thinking about." Maybe this would be another one of those. If he had to guess, he'd say it was another dead French guy whose name Eddie couldn't pronounce.

He was wrong. The frame tumbled into his palm, wrong-side up, and Richie quickly righted it. It was a painting of strawberries, clustered around a blue dragonfly on a plain white field. It looked like an illustration in a kid's book, the simple drawing somehow both childish and masterful. In small swirly, lettering, the painting read _So sweet_. Richie recognized the script even before he spotted the signature in the left hand corner.

"It's... wait. Is this...?"

Eddie curled his hand over the corner of the frame, as if to highlight the name written there. "I know it's not a balloon installation or whatever the fuck, but. You said he was your favorite artist."

"Yeah," Richie said. It was an Andy Warhol. "Wow. This is..."

It was bad. It was probably the worst thing that Eddie had done to him since coming to California.

The problem was this. The problem was that Eddie had gotten him a beautiful painting by his favorite artist, one he'd claimed to hate. And on the same morning that Eddie had been extremely vulnerable with him—he had gone out of his way to buy him a gift he knew Richie would love. For no reason. Just because.

Of all the mixed fucking messages—and Richie was no stranger to mixed messages. He had once brought flowers to a guy who, with piteous eyes, explained that he was fucking three people who were not Richie and uninterested in a flowers kind of relationship. Four years ago, Richie had told a rather promising lawyer he'd been screwing that, sure, he'd meet his parents, and then had blocked the dude's number from his phone. And once he'd told a guy, immediately post-coital, that he could see himself falling in love with him; the guy had said the same and then never called again. 

But this was worse. This left all those incidents in the dust, mere specks on the horizon. Richie was fully aware that Eddie was not in love with him, had never expressed any hint of being in love with him, would never _be_ in love with him. And yet he'd bought him this painting, easily the most romantic gift he'd ever been given in his life. Was Eddie taunting him? Didn't he _know_ it sucked for Richie to watch him dangle these tender acts that meant nothing in front of his nose?

Eddie did not know. He was smiling as Richie turned the frame over in his hands, but then his smile shrank and shrank til his mouth was a straight, unhappy line. "You don't like it."

"No, that's not it."

"You don't," Eddie insisted. He slumped away from Richie, against the arm of the couch, right in the spot he used to sit when they would kiss here. "It's—I can keep looking. I like photography. Or I can learn to like soup cans."

"No, I do like it," Richie said, so Eddie would stop saying thoughtful, devastating things to him. "I just—it's gonna be a bummer splitting all this artwork."

He put the picture down, glass facing up.

Eddie looked down at the painting, then at Richie. "Splitting how?"

Richie's life had been a brick wall, and Eddie was English ivy. He had sent little tendrils into all the voids in Richie's life and dug himself in. There was no getting him out, not without ripping half the wall down with him. 

"I can't keep all of it, Eddie," Richie said heavily. He had picked some of the frames, but it had been Eddie who'd carefully selected and purchased all the art. _All_ the decorations, actually. When Eddie moved out, Richie would be down to the concert poster and the mosaic toad. And the emerald green kitchen. He offered Eddie a bleak, brittle smile, like this was all some great joke and not more of the same of Richie's pathetic life. "You paid for all this, it's gotta be at least half yours."

Eddie looked at him blankly. "What the fuck," he said, "Are you talking about?"

"When you move out. I'm not gonna keep all the artwork," Richie said.

"Oh," Eddie said, and his mouth kept its round shape for a long moment, like a photo of someone mid-speech. Then he stood and started to walk to the kitchen. He stopped and turned on his heel. "Are you—are you asking me to move out?"

"What? No," Richie said. His palms felt clammy at the mere suggestion. He had decided, arbitrarily, that Eddie would stay here for another year; the idea that Eddie would leave sooner made him want to throw up. He forced a laugh. "Sorry, I didn't know you were planning on living here until the day you died, Eds."

" _What?_ "

"I'm not _making_ you move out, Eddie, Jesus. You can stay for as long as you want. Honestly. You're always welcome here."

The color had drained out of Eddie's face. His eyes looked like two large black holes in his face. "I'm _welcome_. Here."

There was a bad feeling that Richie sometimes got, in the moments before an earthquake hit, when he could sense a far-away, subterranean rumble before the ground started shaking. He was getting that feeling now. He said, "What? You are welcome."

Eddie just kept staring at him. "You are the stupidest motherfucker that's ever lived."

With that, he went into the kitchen. Richie, dazed, did not move for a long minute, his brain spinning out like a car tire trapped in mud, and then Eddie _slammed_ one of the cabinet doors and barreled out again, hands empty, jaw locked. This startled Richie out of his stupor and onto his feet at last. "What the fuck? Eddie, are you mad at me?"

"No!" Eddie yelled. He kept walking, didn't turn back to look at Richie once. "No, I'm not mad. I'm so fucking far past mad—I can't fucking look at you, Richie. I can't! I can't even look at your face."

"What the actual fuck?"

"You fucking tell me, Richie! What the fuck? You're talking about me _staying here_ —I'm sleeping in your bed!"

Baffled, Richie said, "Yeah?"

Eddie looked apoplectic. "Do you fucking hear yourself?!"

"Eddie, come on," Richie said, throwing his hands up in the air. Eddie ignored him and headed straight for the front door, stepping so roughly into a pair of his sneakers that he crunched the canvas backs. Eddie _never_ did that; he made Richie stand around and wait while he untied and slid his shoes onto his feet, lecturing him about _material longevity_ the whole time. The blatant disregard for his shoes, more than anything, made Richie freeze in his tracks. "Where are you _going_?"

Eddie did look at him then. "I have no idea," he said, and he regarded Richie as if he were a stranger. "I have absolutely no fucking idea, you—goddamn dipshit. You think I moved to California to, what, exactly?! Hang out? You think I'm fucking _visiting_?!"

"No, I don't, I just—Eddie!" Richie said, panicking now. Eddie was already halfway out the door, his hair unbrushed, his face blotchy with rage, one foot slipping out of his sneaker. It was almost nine. It was a work day. Eddie was leaving, and Richie had fucked it all up, but for once, he had no idea how.

"I have to go. I need to clear my head," Eddie said. He snagged his keys off the table and shot Richie one last wide-eyed, disbelieving look. "Don't start packing my shit up for me while I'm gone."

And then he left. The door slammed shut, and a minute later, the gate began its slow roll open. Richie stared at the door long after Eddie had gone, as if waiting for Eddie to come back and explain. The stupid Warhol painting sat on the table, taunting him.

From the kitchen, the coffee machine beeped. The pot of coffee he had woken up early to make for Eddie, it informed him, had gone cold.

+++

Eddie did not come back. Richie paced by the front door for an interminably long time, waiting for him, but he didn't return. Richie went upstairs and paced the bedroom for a while, too. That wasn't any better. In truth, it was worse, because Richie could see the gate and the road beyond from the windows that looked down over the driveway. Every minute that passed was another minute where he could see that Eddie had not returned.

Richie was pretty sure he was pissed at Eddie. But mostly he was confused, more confused than he had been his whole life.

What the hell had made Eddie so angry? Richie had considered it from all possible angles, and the only possible answer made no sense. Eddie seemed to be under the misapprehension that he and Richie were dating. Which didn't compute, because they _weren't_. Richie would have remembered if they were. Eddie would have said something. They had lived together for months, slept together for weeks—Eddie had had every chance to say something. Anything: Richie would have grasped at any straw, seized any chance. But Eddie hadn't said a word about them dating, or being together, or the sex meaning anything at all.

But he'd been so _mad_. And Eddie didn’t make that kind of logical leap, from sex to a relationship with zero intervening steps. Then again, if he did think that, he’d probably be _glad_ that Richie had never thought they were together. Sweet, straitlaced Eddie, who had gotten married to a woman and had only had missionary sex under the sheets—he must have assumed you needed to be in a relationship to have repeated sex. Richie could have kicked himself; after Eddie's first time they'd just cuddled on the couch watching a movie, when Richie should have explained about hooking up and friends with benefits. Poor Eddie had twisted himself in knots to "date" him and then Richie had ripped the rug out from under his feet. No wonder he was mad; his pride had undoubtedly been hurt. 

Richie would explain. Richie would say he’d never expected anything, and they didn’t need to force this, and it was fine to just have sex and hang out while Eddie put his life back together. _If_ that was even what Eddie thought. More likely Eddie was offended that Richie had made him sound so temporary; he probably thought Richie really _did_ want him to move out. Nobody liked moving. Eddie had probably grown attached to the house after all the work he had done. Richie would explain, and then they'd laugh about it, and everything would go back to normal.

But Richie didn't quite believe it. It was wrong, somehow, and he couldn't put his finger on why, but he knew it was.

But what other option was there? It didn't make _sense_. Richie wasn't stupid; he knew he wasn't. There was a piece missing here, noticeable by its absence but unidentifiable. He turned the thought over and over in his mind, like a rock he was trying to sand down to a smooth pebble. It wouldn't work. He didn't get it. He didn't understand.

He was so deep in his thoughts that the musical tone of his phone ringing made him leap a foot in the air. "Oh Jesus fuck," Richie said, staring down at his phone.

Stan was calling. 

Richie had told Stan to call today, because Stan had wanted to talk on Tuesday and Richie had been forced to appear on a _podcast_ , of all the goddamn things. Paulette insisted that podcasts were cool now, no longer niche; Richie, still torn-up over his bad behavior after the terrible show, had accepted despite his misgivings. And now Stan was calling, just as he said he would.

Richie was struck with a sudden, all-encompassing need to spill his guts to Stan.

But he couldn't. He couldn't tell anyone, but he especially couldn't tell Stan.

Willing his heart to stop rabbit-kicking against his ribcage, he fumbled and then picked up his phone. "Hey, Stan," he said, fake-calm and fake-collected. "How are things?"

"Oh, hey, Richie," Stan said. He was in the car; Richie could tell from the sound quality. That and the turn indicator clicking on and off. "Sorry, I know it's a little early to be calling on a night you don’t have a show, but Patty and I have cookbook club tonight, so I thought if you had time right now, we could—"

"Stan," Richie interrupted. "Do you write down the times for all my shows?"

He didn't know why he was asking. He knew Stan did.

"Of course I do. You're three hours behind, Richie, it's hard enough finding a time to call, I'm not going to bother you when you're about to go onstage. Plus, I like to know what you're up to."

Richie's nerves buzzed with painful static. If he told Stan, Stan would solve it. In high school, Richie had spent hours lying diagonally across Stan's bed, seething at the whole fucked-up world, and Stan would talk him out of it. He'd listen, and point out flaws in Richie's reasoning, and, when Richie's self-pity got too big, Stan would drag him out to the arcade or the movies. Anything to get him out of his own head. Thirty years later, Stan still loved him, enough to keep track of his stupid comedy shows, three hours behind and a continent away. Richie wanted, so badly it felt like a gnawing, animal hunger inside of him, to dump the fight with Eddie in Stan's lap and beg him to fix it.

But he couldn't. He just couldn't. Not to Stan.

"Stan, I—I'm really sorry. But I think I need to reschedule," Richie said.

There was a long pause; Richie could hear the engine running in the background but nothing from Stan. At last he said, in a neutral tone, "Okay. Did something come up?"

"Yeah, but it's fine. I pissed Eddie off," Richie said, letting a short, almost panicked laugh escape his chest, "But it's fine, Staniel, really. Can we—can we do this another time?"

Stan started to say something that sounded like a question, so Richie said "Bye" and hung up on him. Which felt terrible, but what choice did he have? Was he supposed to just unload all his fucked-up feelings onto Stan? 

Richie had done serious, possibly permanent damage to one of the most important relationships in his life today; he was not about to sabotage another. No. He wasn't going to tell Stan.

His phone buzzed where he'd tossed it to the other end of the couch. A message from Stan: _Richie, you know you can always talk to me. Right?_

Richie left him on read.

The morning moved on. At a quarter to ten, Richie's stomach rumbled so loudly he could not ignore it; he got up and fried himself an egg. A runny, gooey egg, the yolk not even slightly set, the kind of egg that made Eddie say shit like, "If you wanna die of salmonella, that's a personal choice" while he ate his eggs over-hard, their yolks cooked like hockey pucks. Richie ate his runny egg on a slice of toast, standing over the sink in the wreck of the kitchen, wolfing it down much too quickly. It burned the roof of his mouth. Richie pressed his tongue into the wounded skin, savoring that little hurt. It was nice to eat a mostly-raw egg, exactly the way he liked, without any criticism.

But it wasn't _that_ nice. It didn't make up for Eddie's absence.

He had only used one pan and one plate to make his breakfast, but the kitchen looked like even more of a war zone than it had. The cold coffee sat in its pot, Eddie's lonely mug beside it. The stacks of dishes that Eddie had sorted through teetered precariously; Richie nudged them back from the lip of the counter so they wouldn't fall. It was such a mess. Eddie had said he'd finish reorganizing tonight, but it was after ten now, and still no sign of Eddie.

His anxiety began to creep back up his spine like goosebumps; he shook himself to get rid of that feeling. Eddie would come back—he had wandered out in his sweatpants, for one, and the mercury was creeping above 90. His shit was here, for another. And the kitchen wasn’t done. Eddie couldn’t just walk away from the green kitchen, his pride and joy, the thing he’d pleaded and cajoled for until Richie had at last given in. He would come back and they would talk, and Richie would make Eddie see sense, and they'd go back to being friends again.

He was obviously coming back.

Wasn’t he?

He was still standing there, fretting, when the driveway gate clicked open. Richie froze on the spot like prey. He had had the gate installed when he moved in—someone, probably Steve, had convinced him that fans might storm the house, but that had never happened. No one ever came to the house, especially not fans. The only person Richie had ever had over was the person who was no doubt letting himself in through the gate at this very moment.

Eddie opened the front door carefully, so the hinges didn't squeak. He shucked his shoes and put his keys down with a clink. Richie, still in the kitchen, didn't move. He waited to see what Eddie would do.

There was no sound of movement from the living room. Eddie stood there, his breathing elevated from the short walk up the driveway to the house, doing nothing. After a long time, he walked over to the staircase and went upstairs quietly.

Richie stayed in the kitchen, rigid with nerves.

Weeks ago, in Bill’s car, Eddie had promised that if he got angry with Richie, he’d get over it. So was he over it now? Were they going to go right back to never talking about it? Richie didn’t like that idea—it made his stomach feel like a hard pit—but it was better than Eddie being mad again. It was better than losing Eddie.

But what if Eddie wanted to stop having sex, stop kissing? That made Richie feel, if possible, worse—the very idea felt like sharp pins being shoved under his fingernails. Richie had grown spoiled, having Eddie in his bed and curled up around him on the couch. It was only today that Eddie had grown brave enough to take his shirt off for sex—was Richie about to lose that, right after it happened?

If that was the price to pay for getting Eddie back, then, fuck. Richie would pay it.

He stashed the frying pan in the dishwasher, making a racket as he did so so that Eddie would know where he was. He was not quiet on the stairs; he didn't want to startle him. When he reached the landing, he could hear Eddie moving around the bedroom. Richie inhaled, held the breath in his lungs, and then knocked once before pushing the door open.

"Hey," Richie said hopefully.

Eddie turned. His arms were full of t-shirts and sweats. "Hey," he said, even as Richie's insides turned to ice.

"Are you—Eddie. You don't have to go."

"I'm not going-going," Eddie said, a little stiffly. He put the shirts on the bed. Richie hadn't noticed, but there was a neat pile of underwear and folded socks, Eddie's deodorant and his wallet. Holy shit, Eddie had disappeared for the morning without his _wallet?_ "I just need to not sleep in your fucking bed tonight."

Your bed, he said, like they hadn't slept there together. Richie felt sick. Light-headed, he sat on the far edge of the mattress, away from Eddie's pile of things, and gripped onto the headboard for dear life. "I don't think you're visiting. Eddie, I swear I don't. But we never—you never said anything."

Eddie looked down at the floor. "I don't like talking. My mom always—no," he said, breaking off and shaking his head. "I'm sorry. That's not fucking fair. But I don't like talking."

"I don't like talking either."

"Yeah. I know," Eddie said meaningfully. "Which is why I thought we weren't talking about it."

He had him there. Richie did not like talking, so he had never talked. He had never _asked_ Eddie why Eddie had suddenly stuck his tongue down his throat, all those months ago. But Richie had also been under no illusions. What the hell had _Eddie_ been thinking, during all that sex and all those stupid conversations?

If Richie had managed to ruin this after all, he was never going to forgive himself.

"Eddie—can you give me some kind of fucking clue, here? You're my best friend and I'd die for you. But I am completely lost, okay?"

Without looking at him, Eddie said, "What did you think I meant, when I told you that I was worried I was like fucking Sonia, coming in here and steamrolling your life, the way she always did to me?"

"That she's a bitch who brainwashed you?"

Richie regretted saying it immediately. Not because it wasn't true—it was—but because Eddie screwed his face up as if in pain. "I can't believe this. I sat there and _told you_ I felt like I was completely taking over your life, being just as needy and demanding and fucked up as she always said I was. Do you know how hard that was for me?"

Richie hated this. Afraid that if he spoke he'd only make things worse, he said nothing, just gripped the headboard til his hand throbbed dully. Eddie continued, "And you said your life was better with me in it, but—were you just being _nice_?"

" _No._ It is better, Eddie. I want you here."

Eddie's laugh was entirely without humor. "I know. I'm welcome here."

"Don't do that. That's not fucking fair," Richie said angrily, "You had a fucking wife when you came here—"

"She has nothing to do with this!"

Of course she didn't. Of course Eddie was going to keep his cards hot-glued to his chest while Richie twisted in the wind. "You were still married the first dozen times we played tonsil hockey so I think yeah, she _does_ have something to do with this!"

"Well I don't remember you fucking complaining!" Eddie snapped back.

"I'm not complaining, Eddie, Jesus!" Richie said. He stood up and ran his fingers through his hair til it stuck up in all directions, til it was as out of control as he felt. Eddie crossed his arms against his chest and glared at him, jaw resolutely set, not giving an inch. "I'm just—that's not how this works! You can't just decide you're gonna paint the fucking house and suck my dick and do whatever else you want, all without ever saying anything, and just _expect_ me to fall into fucking line!"

Eddie's face went expressionless, and he turned away. The only sign of how deeply hurtful that sentence had been was the way he clenched his hands into fists, knuckles white.

Fuck. Richie had never been good at arguing without aiming to hurt, because he'd never bothered to work on it. He didn't give a shit about anyone's feelings but his own—not the comics he worked alongside, not the fake Hollywood friends he tolerated, not the guys he slept with. So of course he had gone and called Eddie controlling, not one minute after Eddie said he was afraid of being like his mother.

He wasn't. Eddie wasn't controlling. Sonia hadn't loved Eddie, or she hadn't loved him _right_ —Eddie wasn't like that. Eddie decorated because he wanted the house to look nice. He didn't do it for any other reason; he just wanted both of them to live somewhere that looked good.

Like a storm breaking, Richie's anger and self-righteousness suddenly evaporated; all that was left was weariness. "I don't mean—you didn't steamroll me, okay? I'm sorry. You wanted to paint, I was happy for you to do it. Just don't act like I should have known you painting the bathroom was some declaration of love, or whatever." 

Eddie said nothing, just stood there with his mouth set and his forehead deeply furrowed. Richie loved the frown lines on Eddie's forehead, how they'd appear regardless of whether he was pissed or smiling. But now he wished Eddie would do something, _anything_ to telegraph his feelings. 

"What did you think this was? In your mind. Am I your roommate or what."

Helplessly, Richie caved in on himself, hands in his pockets. "You never said _anything_. Until this morning I thought we were—banging things out. As friends."

Eddie eyes went wide, but just for a moment. Then he went to the closet and pulled the doors open. He stood with his back to Richie as he said, "Okay, well, I guess I do have to move out. Because I'm in love with you."

"Oh."

Eddie turned around. He rolled his eyes and said, " _Oh._ "

He was packing again. Richie watched him do it, watched him carry an old backpack over to the bed and start jamming clothes inside. He shoved his socks and underwear in the bottom, then his toiletries, then his t-shirts. The system made no sense. Meanwhile, Richie's mouth was so dry that he had to unstick his tongue from the roof to croak out, "Me?"

Eddie halted his haphazard packing. "Are you seriously fishing for compliments right now?"

"No, I'm—Eddie, seriously. Do you have brain damage? I'm a fucking loser comedian with depression, why would you—"

"Fuck you," Eddie spat, so vicious and unexpected that Richie physically recoiled. "You don't have to feel the same way but you don't have to be an asshole about it. Yes, I'm in love with you. You think I give a shit you're depressed? I know you're depressed! I'm depressed, and anxious, and I can't walk up stairs without getting winded, and I look like shit besides! So what!"

He was angrier than Richie had ever seen him. When Eddie was a kid, strong emotion of any kind made him burst into tears; Richie saw something of that in him now, except Eddie was dry-eyed. He looked half-wild, the words bursting out of him. "And even if I did care, which I _don't_ , everybody we _know_ is depressed because we grew up in the child murder capital of the fucking country! Which doesn't even fucking matter, because I moved to California to be with you, Richie, and I fucking hate California. I moved into your insane frat house with the fucking mosaic toad and the brown carpet! I bought you a goddamn Andy Warhol painting!"

Richie's brain, still reeling from shock, said only, "I thought you liked that painting."

This, for whatever reason, knocked Eddie off his track. Something in his expression shifted, going small and vulnerable. "I like _you_. I love you."

Richie stared at him. "Eds," he said, "I really didn't know."

Eddie slumped, and he put two hands onto the mattress to steady himself. "Well, that makes two of us," he said.

If there was anything to do, Richie would have done it. Instead, Eddie collected himself, threw the rest of his things in the backpack and zipped it up. He slung it over one shoulder and said, "I'm gonna go stay at Bill's for a couple days."

He brushed past Richie on his way out the door. And Richie, the coward, let him go without saying a word.

+++

It was the worst Monday of Richie's life.

Thursday through Sunday were bad too, but that weekend in Derry had been worse—thinking Stan was dead, Neibolt, that interminably long Sunday spent pacing the waiting room in Derry hospital while Eddie was in surgery. As depressing as it was to go to bed alone each night, Thursday through Sunday, it wasn't worse than that. But Eddie had woken up on a Monday morning—he'd done his morphine-laced rant about his marriage and then said "Beep beep motherfucker" to no one in particular before passing out again—so this Monday was easily, far and away, the worst Monday of Richie's life.

It was boring, and it was long. He woke mid-morning and dragged himself into the shower; he reheated the last of the leftovers for brunch. He had nothing to do, for a change—Paulette, as an apology for booking him on that idiotic podcast, had given him a block of free days to make up for it. Any other time in his life, he would have been thrilled, but not today. Today he desperately needed something to do.

Eddie had left the kitchen half-finished—perhaps forever. He'd sorted the dishes, consolidating where necessary and marking things he thought needed to be purchased, but he hadn't packed them in boxes. Everything had to be out before the cabinet installers came, but Richie couldn't do it. He couldn't do it without Eddie. If Eddie didn't come back, Richie was going to cancel the whole installation, because the idea of looking at emerald green cabinets for the rest of his life was enough to haunt his dreams.

Catastrophizing again.

Richie did laundry instead. Then he vacuumed, and then he ordered takeout and cursed himself for being forty-one years old and still unable to feed himself. He missed Eddie cooking. Not for the food—not only for the food—but for the way Eddie moved through the kitchen, comfortable and sure of himself, making something good out of ordinary ingredients. The other day Eddie had made stir fry with homemade peanut sauce, and hadn't he been _smug_ about the fact that the sauce had honey in it.

Richie couldn't cook for shit, so he ate pizza on the couch, wondering how the house could be so quiet and so loud at the same time.

He had come to the following conclusion over the last four days: Eddie couldn't be in love with him. It couldn't be true. It felt equally as improbable as a child-eating monster lurking in the sewers of his hometown, which was to say, totally impossible. People didn't get multiple one-in-a-billion improbabilities like that in the same lifetime.

He was pretty sure he had ruined things with Eddie permanently. Eddie had said he loved him, and Richie had said, "I didn't know." He was not surprised that he had managed this, but it had happened way, way ahead of schedule. Richie was just mad at himself for thinking he had a year. Based on his illustrious track record, he should have been expecting six months, tops.

Pizza reduced to crusts, he turned the TV on and ignored it. His phone buzzed a few times; he didn't pick it up. Richie just stared at the clock all evening, willing the day to end. It didn't. The clock seemed to be broken, its number hand shifting every few millennia or so but its hour hand stubbornly stuck on 7 for all eternity.

Fuck this, Richie thought, and peeled himself off the couch. If ever there was a time for an emergency cigarette, it was now. As usual, he ignored the mess in the kitchen and pawed through the junk drawer until he found the box and the lighter. Then he went out through the sliding door into the back yard. It was a nice night, balmy, the moon shimmering through a pink-gray smoggy haze. Richie clicked his lighter and inhaled until his lungs ached.

"Fuck," he said, aloud to no one.

Smoking made him think about Bev. Smoking made him think about a lot of things—playing shitty clubs in New York and smoking in alleys, trying to quit in Bangor so that Eddie would stop sending him mortality statistics—but he chose to think about Bev. He wondered what Bev was up to tonight. He wondered if she was doing well. Most especially, he wondered what she would say.

He wanted to call her. He still desperately wanted to tell someone. He checked the time—it wasn't quite eleven on the east coast. He wasn't going to call her, but he did scroll to her name in his contacts list. God, he wanted to talk to someone, even though the story was pathetic and stupid and made him look terrible.

Well, Eddie knew that he was a stupid fucking idiot who hadn't noticed that he had a live-in boyfriend. And now Bill was sure to know, because there was no way Eddie had shown up on Bill's front step without explaining. Frankly, everyone probably knew already, because word travelled fast. Which just left Richie standing in his backyard with his cigarettes, finger hovering over the call button, too scared to take the plunge. 

Fuck it. He gulped a lungful of smoke for bravery, and then called Bev.

The line rang so long that Richie was afraid it would catch her voicemail, but right before he hung up in a panic, Bev answered. She sounded awake and not at all surprised to hear from him. "Hey," Riche said, heart pounding, "Um, what are you doing right now?"

"Repotting a banana tree, if you must know."

"Is that a joke?" If it was, he didn't get it.

"No. Ben gave it to me, and I've killed every plant I've ever owned in my entire life, but not this one. This one I'm keeping alive," she said with determination. Richie could not imagine why Ben was giving her plants, but he could easily picture Bev killing them. Bev hummed a little, as if lost in thought, then said, "So what's up Rich? Just suddenly felt like calling?"

The way she said it made it obvious that she knew exactly why he had called. Crushed, Richie slumped against the back door. "He called you, didn't he."

Their fucking divorce fraternity, being all secretive, _again_.

"I'm sorry honey, he called first, he gets dibs." She did sound genuinely sorry, too. "You should try Stan."

"I can't talk to _Stan_ , Bev."

"Why? Stan'll help."

Stan was the last person on earth Richie was going to tell. Tax advice and pleasantries and updates on Patty's kindergarteners? Sure. But Richie's crushing interpersonal drama? He would never unload all of that on Stan. Stan had almost died and had to be hospitalized after Mike called him; even now, all these months later, Richie felt sick thinking about Stan going through that. He had suffered so fucking much. Richie refused to add to that. He wasn't going to impose on Stan's kindness, his goodness. Not for this.

He took another long drag of the cigarette and shook his head, even though Bev couldn't see him. "I can't do that to Stan. I can't dump all my shit on him like that. He's still—he doesn't need me bothering him."

"You wouldn't be bothering him."

"Yes, I would, okay? Just drop it, Bev."

She did not drop it. "Richie, honey. It's been almost a year. And Stan loves you, you know he'd help you," she said softly. As if a year was enough time to fix all that. Richie's only response was a loud exhale as he watched the cigarette smoke dissipate and float away to join the rest of the California smog. "Well, what about Mike?"

"I'm not doing that to him, either. He spent twenty years watching out for us. And Ben," Richie said with a groan, clapping his hand to his forehead so hard ash sprinkled onto his shirt, "I'm sure Ben knows everything, if Eddie called, but Jesus, I literally just panic-vomited all my feelings at him like a month ago."

It had been a few months, really, but it had also been a big conversation. Richie had asked Ben to tell him he was a good person, for Christ's sake; surely Ben was entitled to a cooling-off period of at least a year before he had to handle Richie's shit again.

"Richie, that's not how friendship works. You're allowed to tell us things, you're allowed to need things," Bev said, voice very gentle. "Stan loves you so much. We all do."

Richie said nothing. He just stared out at the moonlit back yard and smoked his cigarette. 

There was a long, thoughtful silence, and then Bev blew out a quick breath of air that crackled over the phone. "Okay," she said, "Just this once, let's pretend Eddie didn't call me. I'll put a firewall in my brain and we'll start over. Oh, _hello,_ Richie, how are you?"

Her voice was exaggeratedly cheerful, and her plan was stupid. Richie snorted, then dropped the cigarette underfoot and crushed it. "This is dumb," he said.

Bev waited him out in silence.

Sighing, Richie picked out another cigarette and lit it. He wasn't going to partake in this stupid exercise without stimulants. "Eddie told me he's in love with me," he said, as he blew out a thin stream of blue-gray smoke. "We've been sleeping together for, uh. Two months. He told you that part?"

"Firewall, Richie," she reminded him. "But yeah, he did."

Haltingly, Richie told his version of events: Eddie had moved to California. They'd cohabitated uneventfully for a few months, then Eddie had kissed him, gotten divorced, and started sleeping with him, in both senses of the phrase. They had never, not once, talked about what it meant that they were sleeping together until Thursday afternoon, when Eddie had dumped the words _I love you_ into Richie's lap like a hand grenade with the pin already drawn.

He left out several parts. Some of it wasn't his to tell—the conversation about Eddie's mom, which Richie felt certain was important even though he couldn't quite say how, or how Eddie was convinced his scars had made him disgusting—and some of it he figured was obvious. He just assumed that Bev knew he was in love with Eddie. That he had been since they were all children.

Besides, if he had to say it out loud, he might be sick. 

Bev listened. Periodically, Richie could hear her doing things on the other end of the line, moving things around, pouring what was probably dirt from a bag into a smaller container. She said "Mm-hmm" and "Okay" at appropriate intervals, but she waited for Richie to recount the whole sordid mess before speaking.

"So let me get this straight," she said, "He told you that he loves you, and you said that you didn't know he was in love with you. But you never told him how you feel?"

Wincing, Richie said, "That's correct."

"Okay, so you should tell him that you're in love with him."

So she did know. Richie had known she did, but it still sparked that lifelong surge of panic in his chest. Somebody knew. He always, always flinched when someone knew.

More importantly, her advice was fucking terrible. "I can't _tell_ him that!" Richie said, outraged.

"Richie, seriously: why the fuck not?"

"Why not?" He inhaled smoke until his lungs burned. "Okay, let's start with this one: he was married! To a woman!"

"And then he got divorced," Bev said sternly. "Richie, he's in love with you, he wants to be with you, he's already living in your house. Isn't that a good thing?"

"But what if he's _wrong_."

"Wrong how?"

Richie hesitated, dragging his sandaled foot through the scrub grass and the packed dirt. "I'm pretty sure he got married to the first girl he ever slept with," he said. Eddie had never said this, not in so many words, but he'd dropped enough hints. "And then he stayed married to her for ten fucking years, even though he hated her, and now he's sleeping with me. Do you see the problem here?"

He had theories as to why Eddie stayed: obligation. Convenience. Sonia Kaspbrak's malevolent ghost breathing poison in his ear. But it hadn't been love. And Richie did not want Eddie to wake up one morning, realize his feelings had changed—or worse, never existed—and then suffer through the second half of his life.

"But why do you think he's wrong about _you_?"

Because it's me, Richie wanted to say but didn't. But it was what he was thinking. It was him. He was who he was, and he'd been this way his whole life. Richie had been left behind by every person he'd ever tried to love—except the Losers. If he let himself believe Eddie loved him and it turned out he didn't, Richie thought the pain might obliterate him.

"I can be his first gay experience, that's fine. I can sleep with him and be his friend and bow out, you know, when he's ready to move on. I can't—Jesus, Bev," he said. "I can't be more than that. Not if it's not real."

Bev sighed. Richie hoped she didn't have a pitiful expression on her face, but she probably did. "Richie. You have to tell him you love him."

"No," Richie said forcefully. "There's no coming back from that."

For a while, neither of them spoke. Richie smoked his cigarette down to the filter, and the moon glinted like a hole poked through the fabric of the night sky. His heart was still racing, his fingers trembling around the end of the cigarette. Bev was doing something on the other end of the line—it sounded like metal tapping against metal, over and over again.

"This stupid plant," she said. "It really wants to die, but I'm just not going to let it."

"Why'd he buy you a banana tree?" Richie said, because otherwise he'd have to sit there and reckon with his faults.

"I saw a fabric that I liked with banana leaves on it, he remembered, he bought me a banana tree," Bev said. She sounded so fond, every time she talked about Ben. "I love it, I just also want to take it out back and shoot it."

Richie laughed. It was short, and shaky, but it was laughter. "Eddie bought me an Andy Warhol painting," he admitted.

"Really? That seems like something Eddie would hate."

"I think he does," Richie said, and he smiled, thinking about Eddie's vehement hate of soup cans. "I don't know. I said I liked Andy Warhol, he was a snob about it, and then he picked one out special. It's got like, strawberries."

"Sounds nice," Bev said.

"Yeah. Actually, he dug out this old concert poster, from this show I went to in like, '99 or something, and he framed that too."

"Didn't he paint, too?"

She knew damn well he'd painted. Eddie had shown everyone on Facetime, while Richie pretended it meant nothing and everyone else followed suit. "Yeah. He's painted most of the downstairs. Like, I could afford to pay somebody, you know, but he insisted," Richie said.

"He insisted, huh?"

"Yeah. Oh, yeah. And he's so particular about it, you know? Like he wanted it to be perfect, really perfect, even though I don't think I would have noticed if it wasn't. But he wanted it to be nice. He worked really hard at it." Something was happening in Richie's chest. It was like nerves, but worse; it was like his heart was throbbing, about to explode. The words were tumbling out of him, as if he simply _needed_ to keep rattling off all the kind, thoughtful things Eddie had done, just for Richie, just because. "And he bought all this artwork, not just the Warhol, too, and he's redoing the kitchen and he buys me hand soap? And also honey, like an unholy fucking amount of honey."

Bev hummed thoughtfully. "Now why would he do all that?"

The worst part was that that didn't begin to cover what Eddie had done. He had found Richie a new accountant. He had talked Richie down after that terrible show. He always replaced the coffee filter when he guzzled the entire pot by himself. Since moving in, Eddie had cooked dinner almost every night; he'd reviewed twenty years of his financial records; he'd kissed Richie before he'd brushed his teeth and didn't even complain—much. Every day he found some way to let Richie know he was thinking about him. Every day he kissed Richie thoughtlessly or leaned up against him on the couch or stroked his hair when Richie's insomnia was bad. In short, Eddie did all the kind, careful things you for the person you were in love with.

Feeling heavy all over, Richie sank down onto the porch step. 

"Bev," he said, floored.

"You catching on there, Rich?" she said. She was making fun of him, but only a little.

"Is that Richie? Can I say hi?" said a new voice on Bev's side of the phone. It was good to hear Ben's voice; so good that Richie didn't even mind him listening in. Richie, heart still racing, laughed shakily and covered his face with his hands.

"Yeah, hey, Haystack," he said, dragging his hands down his face. Bev put him on speaker and Ben said hello again; Richie was sure he was smiling. "How're you doing, man? I'm just having a pity party with your girlfriend here."

"Oh no," Ben said, in the somber tones that one would use when witnessing a tragedy, "Bev's not the person you should go to for sympathy. Oh, Rich, you should have called me."

"Come on. You don't want me calling to whine at you, again. I'm not that annoying."

Bev snorted. "Annoying? Annoying is Bill calling every time Mike posts a picture on his road trip, asking, oh, does he look lonely? I think he looks lonely."

"And then Mike calls _me_ ," Ben added, "To ask if it would be rude to invite himself to Bill's place, and should he just swing by Los Angeles and ask if Bill wants to see him."

As soon as they said it, Richie realized it was true. There was a reason Bill was so lonely out in his big beatiful house; there was a reason Mike kept wistfully mentioning that he wanted someone to share his trip with.

"Oh, fuck," Richie said, astonished. "Those two are in love, huh?"

Bev giggled, and Ben said, "I think they just might be."

Well, Richie was going to have to apologize to Bill for avoiding him for six months out of petty jealousy, that was for sure.

Mike and Bill. To his own surprise, he saw it. They were both smart, well-read homebodies who loved routine and were prone to melancholy if left to their own devices. That weekend in Maine, it was Mike who made Bill smile more than anyone else. And everyone had been a little in love with Big Bill, once upon a time—Mike was no exception. True, Bill had turned out to be a flannel-wearing nerd who stood even shorter than Eddie, but since Richie was in love with Eddie, a neurotic, short bastard who'd tried to silently woo him via home decor, he was hardly in a position to judge.

They would be good together. Mike would keep Bill from rotting away in that beautiful, empty house all by himself. And Bill could make Mike happy, if he wanted to. They had always understood each other best.

As surprising as this revelation was, Richie was simultaneously amazed by how calm Bev and Ben were being. It seemed to be no big deal; they were happy for them. If they were annoyed at all, it was about the pining, not the love behind it. And Bev had been neither surprised nor perturbed when she mentioned that Richie was in love with Eddie. She knew, and she didn't care.

Nobody cared. Well, people cared—Richie had told enough homophobic jokes to drunk assholes to know that people cared. But not his friends. It wasn't that he thought they'd be disgusted with him—only that he'd been terrified despite himself. But they knew, and they hadn't been. Bev knew. Mike knew. When Mike had found out, he'd said only, "I want you to take care of yourself"—not "don't do it, Richie," not "you're disgusting, Richie," not "you're too incorrigibly fucked up for any person to love, Richie." 

And Bev had advised him to tell Eddie how he felt. Bev was neither cruel nor a dewy-eyed optimist—so that must mean she thought there was a chance things weren't ruined beyond repair.

But he had to do something about it. He had to be brave. He had to do something deeply insane and be honest with the people who loved him.

Trembling, Richie took a deep breath in. "I'm in love with Eddie," he said, ashing his cigarette onto the concrete step.

The moon and stars remained in the sky; the ocean didn't boil away to nothingness. Richie had said it out loud, at last, and nothing bad had happened. 

"That's wonderful, Richie," Ben said warmly, and Richie could tell he really meant it.

"Thanks," Richie said. The weight on his chest eased. His eyes were stinging, and he shoved his glasses up to rub at them. "I, uh. I think there's a chance he might be in love with me."

There was a long, pregnant pause, and then Ben said, in a confused half-whisper, "Didn't Eddie say—?"

"Ben!" Bev yelped, "The firewall!"

For whatever reason—maybe the way Bev's voice had gone high and squeaky, maybe the stupid firewall, maybe the inherent absurdity of being a person in the world—Richie laughed. And laughed and laughed, until he did cry, just a little bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: multiple descriptions of eddie's scars and injuries, including eddie talking very negatively about his appearance; eddie talks about sonia's emotional abuse; richie's self-worth is abysmal; mentions of mental illness and disorders as well as child death; richie and bev discuss the aftermath of stan's non-fatal suicide attempt; richie spends a lot of time parsing his own internalized homophobia before deciding to come out to bev and ben.
> 
> if you are googling andy warhol's "So sweet," please note that eddie buys the 1958 version with the blue dragonfly and not the strawberry with the face, because he wants to match the green leaves of the strawberries to the green cabinets. it is also not a painting but a stamp-and-ink drawing, but there's no way in hell richie or eddie know that. 
> 
> it is also vitally important that you know that stan and patty's cookbook club is a monthly dinner party club where they vote on a cookbook for the month and the hosts select a meal from the cookbook and make it. i have not stopped thinking about this concept since a friend of a friend told me about it 5 years ago.
> 
> the good news is that the election/related anxiety and insomnia have done WONDERS for my productivity, so it’s extremely likely we will wrap this up next wednesday right on schedule. thank you for all your nice comments and be kind to yourselves this week, it’s gonna be a ride.


	6. Two Dozen Long Stemmed Red Roses, Wrapped Bouquet

In the middle of _everything_ , it seemed deeply unreasonable that Richie had to drive to Silver Lake to meet the stupid showrunner for _Suspension_.

Paulette called to remind him bright and early on Tuesday morning, right as he was psyching himself up to figure out a plan to fix things with Eddie. Mind firmly on other things, he answered with, "Hi Paulette," to which Paulette said, "Tell me you remember the meeting you have today."

"The what?" He had no memory of any of this. But when he pulled up the calendar on his phone, there it was, a notification with the words _Suspension meeting!!!_ on it. And then he saw the location and swore at great length. "In fucking _Silver Lake_?"

"Yes in Silver Lake," she said, utterly without sympathy. "I told you this one thousand times, Rich. I gave you the whole weekend off, and Monday too, because you were fucking dramatic about the podcast taping, but now, you're going to the meeting. You miss this meeting and I'll rake your body across hot coals. I don't care what romantic drama you have going on, Richie, I'll smash every window in your preposterous little car, don't fuck with me. You take this meeting or _you die._ "

Richie hated her, and Silver Lake, and the Los Angeles traffic, and everything else on earth. The thing with Eddie was more than romantic drama, it was Richie's _life_ , and the person he loved best in it.

Paulette emphatically did not give a shit. So Richie put on a collared shirt and drove to a pretentious upscale restaurant to meet the showrunner for a show he'd never, ever watched. When the hostess escorted him to the table and Richie saw that the person who was clearly waiting for him was in his _twenties_ , he nearly stormed right back out.

Instead, he forced himself to smile. "You must be Joakim," he said.

The guy looked up. He had a baby face. He was a child—no more than twenty-seven. Richie had been taking bit roles in stoner comedies and doing stand-up to unconscious alcoholics at twenty-seven, and this guy, with his round cheeks and his _beanie_ , had two Emmys. "Richie," he said, shaking Richie's hand. Then he grinned. "The Trashmouth?"

Richie dropped heavily into a chair. "Not so much. I'm doing this whole rebranding thing."

"I heard. Apparently it's impossible to get tickets to your show." Joakim was hard to read. He was young, and he smiled politely at the waitress who came over to take their orders, but he also grinned knowingly at Richie in a way that made his hackles rise. "You're a hard man to get a hold of."

"Not that I don't appreciate it—really—but I was expecting you to give up way earlier. Bill must have put in a really good word."

"Oh, he put in a _really_ good word," Joakim said bluntly. "He emailed our head writer like, six times, gushing about you."

Richie stared at him, assuming he had misspoken, but Joakim made no move to correct himself. "Wow," Richie said at last, voice faint. Big Bill. Who would have thought?

"So anyway," Joakim said, getting straight to business, "Did you used to be a pot-smuggling gym teacher, or what? Because Denborough was very insistent."

Richie didn't mean to say what he said next. There was something about Joakim's overconfidence that Richie didn't like. He was looking at Richie with that expression that frat bros and former frat bros turned account executives got when they ran into Richie at airports and hotel bars—an instant sizing-up. Joakim didn't seem cut from that cloth, but he looked like he'd pegged Richie the moment he came in the door: hack comic with delusions of grandeur, wannabe actor.

Well, Richie was a hack comic, but he was damn sure not going to let some pretentious almost-teenager treat him like one.

So Joakim asked him if he was a pot-smuggling gym teacher, and Richie said, perfectly blasé, "Nah, but I'm afraid of children, and I killed a guy with an axe once. So the whole, criminal school employee thing comes pretty naturally to me."

Joakim stopped smiling. Richie, satisfied, sat back in his chair.

But the moment didn't last. This wasn't any old punk twenty-something; it was a twenty-something with a hit TV show under his belt, and he recovered far more quickly than Richie was expecting. "To be honest," Joakim said, "We cast that role weeks ago."

Richie felt a momentary thunderclap of anger—but it faded. It was a dick move, but what did Richie care? He hadn't wanted this role to begin with. Shrugging, he kept his voice level as he said, "Well aren't you're a sick fuck, making me drive to Silver Lake for a role you were never gonna give me."

"Sorry," Joakim said. He didn't look sorry. "I couldn't tell Bill Denborough, 'Hey, too bad about your friend, already cast that role a month ago.' I mean, he's _Bill Denborough_. I read _Attic Room_ three hundred times in college."

Richie believed it. He hadn't read it, or any of Bill's books—Eddie was the reader in their household, leafing through crime novels before he went to sleep and leaving them all over the goddamn place. But Richie could see it. Joakim was even wearing jeans and a woolen hat in Los Angeles. He looked scruffily handsome, which was probably the result of quite a bit of styling in front of a mirror. And he had that general aura of a self-described _artiste_. Yeah, Richie could picture him devouring Bill's books.

He wanted to tell Joakim that his idol was in love with a librarian but too chickenshit to call and tell him, but, well. People in chickenshit glass houses.

"You could have lied, you know," Richie pointed out. "Or just canceled the meeting, come on, dude. I sat in traffic for an hour."

"I kinda wanted to meet you, though," Joakim said. The waitress brought them their elegantly plated food and placed it on the table. Richie thanked her, wishing he'd ordered more food—he wasn’t getting the part _and_ Jeff Bezos was footing the bill. Across the table, Joakim began to mince his roast chicken with a knife and fork. "Your show is getting a lot of buzz."

"I don't read my press."

"You should."

"Tried it," Richie said shortly. "Wasn't good for me. I pay people to do that now."

Joakim gave him a long, considering stare as he sipped his sparkling water. It was too close, too personal for an informal meeting like this, especially since Richie already knew that he had assuredly not booked the job. "You've changed a lot, from your old stuff."

"Yeah, well, you will too, once you hit puberty."

Stiffening, Joakim said, "Hey, I used to download your standup routines off Limewire, dude."

That whole sentence made Richie feel decrepit. "Well, don't blame me for your shitty taste."

"Really," Joakim said flatly, unimpressed. "Just gonna write off the first fifteen years of your career, just like that?"

"Really," Richie said, deadly serious. Fuck this dude, with his beanie and his smirks. "If I could take back every single toxic routine I unleashed on the universe, I'd do it. I really would. Leaving aside that all that I got for spewing that horrible shit was a mediocre career entertaining jerk-off middle managers in the Laugh Factory, Kansas City, what was I doing that for? Who benefitted? Nobody. Strictly speaking, I made the world quantifiably worse."

Paulette was going to be so pissed at him, because Richie had not only failed to book this gig, he was probably landing himself on some sort of Amazon blacklist, some secret document that said DO NOT CAST on it in block letters. Joakim raised his eyebrows until they disappeared under his shaggy bangs, but he looked less smug and a lot more considering now.

"You're really not what I was expecting," he said. 

Richie could guess what he'd been expecting. Richie had spent two decades pretending to be a shittier, meaner version of himself, and he was done with that. He and Bev had talked about this for hours last night, about where you could afford to compromise and where you couldn't. It had been mostly in the context of Richie's love life, but—fuck it. Richie had done his time being a shitty, sniveling drain on humanity. He was done with that now.

He crossed his arms and sat back as Joakim continued, "Everyone's talking about your show, how it's so different, so honest, but I used to love your edgelord bullshit routine. I thought you were fucking hysterical when I was twenty and a bad person."

"So, like, two years ago."

He ignored the jab. Instead he tapped his finger against the table, rapid-fire. "What happened? Why'd you change?"

"What the hell is this, man?" Richie said distastefully. "You want me to unburden my soul to you?"

"No," Joakim said. "I want you to say something profound so I can steal it and put it in my TV show."

Unexpectedly, Richie laughed. The kid was still a shit, but that was funny. And since Richie had lifted whole anecdotes from other people to incorporate into his standup routine, he figured he couldn't judge.

Shrugging, he decided on honesty. "I started hanging out with people who gave a shit about me. Who liked me enough to want better for me than the two-bit writers I was relying on."

Richie caught the way Joakim’s eyes widened ever-so-slightly when he said writers. Admitting that your comedy was ghostwritten was career malpractice, but Richie had done it with his eyes open, simply because he wanted to. 

"That's all it is," he concluded. "I'm forty-one years old and I'm trying genuine human connection for the first time in my life."

Joakim nodded. "How's it going?"

"Shitty," Richie said gloomily. "I'm in love, but I fucked it all up. I gotta figure out a hell of a gesture to make up for it."

Looking pensive, Joakim nodded again. "Can't go wrong with flowers," he said. "Or a sincere apology."

Richie was probably going to start with the sincere apology. It had worked pretty well with Eddie last time, when he'd freaked out over nothing and Eddie had forgiven him and kissed him goodnight at the bottom of the stairs. Obviously this had been a fuck-up of an entirely different magnitude, but the core concept remained unchanged. Eddie loved him. Richie was choosing to trust that he had meant it when he said it; that meant there had to be a decent chance Eddie would forgive him.

Rather than getting lost in calculating just _how_ decent a chance there was, he took a big bite of his burger and said, mouth full of food, "You get enough profound bullshit for your TV show?"

"What, that?" Joakim said in disbelief. "Dude, that's lame as hell. You're in love and you're a better person? Like, congrats, man, but it's not compelling storytelling."

God, he was so fucking young, Richie realized, which was an old person kind of thing to say, but whatever. "Before it happened to me, I would have agreed," he said, "But now—I'm not a better person, but I want to be. I may even go back to therapy. Isn't that the craziest thing you've ever fucking heard?"

Joakim laughed, sounding caught between incredulity and genuine amusement. "No. The part where you said you killed a guy with an axe was."

Richie guessed that was fair.

"Fuck," Joakim said, and he leaned back and stretched his long legs out under the table, staring at Richie like a puzzle he needed to figure out. "You're a strange person. Hypothetically, if I had a guest role for you for next season, would you be willing to come in to read?"

Richie was so shocked he choked on a French fry. He had to pound on his own chest, lest he—after everything—choked to death on French fries in some upscale joint in Silver Lake.

It would be a good career move, he knew that. And Paulette would have _kittens_ if he came back from this weird-ass meeting with an audition. But then Richie would have to go to the audition and he might even—perish the thought—book the role. Emmy award winners worked on this show. Richie's only acting credentials were Drunk Guy #3 and here was some boy wonder producer, offering him an audition for his critically acclaimed TV show.

Richie opened his mouth, panicked, and then shut it again. Joakim watched, amused, while Richie tried to figure out what to say. Well, no, he knew what he should say—he was trying to locate the courage to say it.

Say yes, he told himself. So what if he was untrained, or inexperienced? He'd either learn on the job or they wouldn't cast him; either one was okay. He had done this stupid, late-in-life career pivot for precisely this reason: so that he could do work he didn't have to be ashamed of, work he actually _liked_. That was the point of everything post-Derry—to make himself a life worth living.

"Fuck it," he said at last, as much to himself as to Joakim. "Hypothetically? Yeah. I'd give it a shot."

+++

When he arrived home from Silver Lake, it wasn't yet evening. Even if Eddie had been home—he wasn't, he was still at Bill's and he hadn't texted—it was not yet time to flip the outside light on. The house just stood there, at the end of the short driveway, behind the gate, glinting in the late afternoon sun.

His phone buzzed, buzzed, buzzed. Joakim had sent a text thanking him for an interesting meeting; Paulette had sent a barrage of excited messages, badgering him for details. Richie smiled down at the phone but didn't answer them. Instead he turned the ignition off and sat there, staring up at his house.

He could still remember coming here with the realtor, hungover and wracked with grief over his dad dying, even though months had passed since the funeral. The realtor said things like "split level" and "postwar style" and "good school district," and Richie had tilted his shades up and said, "Fine, whatever."

He had wanted something good. He remembered that. Experience had taught him he was incapable of being loved but he figured he could at least plug a house into the black hole inside of him, and he'd signed the papers without even bothering to look around. He'd wanted something good, but he'd realized quickly that the house would take a _lot_ of work to make good. So he gave up. It was a house, he lived in it, the end. And he hadn't reconsidered this stance until Eddie arrived.

He tried to see things as Eddie must have done, when he'd first arrived in November. It was a house. It was gray. The front façade was the roomy garage on the bottom, the bedrooms above, looking out over the driveway and the gate in the direction of the ocean. There wasn't really an ocean view—Richie had held Eddie's hand as he lay in his hospital bed, lying through his teeth that you could see the ocean from the top floor, when, at most, you could see a blue sliver from one particular angle of the master bathroom. Eddie had never called him out on this. When he arrived in LA he took one look at Richie's shabby old house and said, "I thought there'd be more palm trees."

Richie shut his car door, walked around to the front door, and let himself in. The lot was so skinny that the split-level house was built sideways—the front door stuck out of the side of building. "South-facing," Eddie had said, as Richie carried his suitcases in, "Good for sunlight." He'd taken a pill to cope with the stress of flying, and his eyes were huge and his words came slowly, and Richie had flitted around him, fetching him glasses of water and the TV remote and Richie's own pillow off his bed. Eddie, pupils the size of dinner plates, looked around. "Why the fuck is your house so ugly," he said, and then got annoyed when Richie laughed.

He'd hated the couch, but he'd had to sleep there the first two nights, because Richie's guest room had been upstairs, his office on the main level—Eddie, with his reduced aerobic capacity, couldn't make it up the staircase to the second floor. Two days later, a moving company came and swapped all the furniture around. Then Eddie started sleeping in the guest room. He'd never warmed to the couch until he started kissing Richie on top of it almost every night. When Richie asked why, he shrugged. "It's just so brown," he said.

It was still brown, but Eddie had casually draped a red blanket on it, one that matched the one Richie had seen in Bill's house. Mike had sent them—Eddie had mentioned this one Sunday evening when he'd been playing with Richie's hair while Richie drifted off, head in Eddie's lap. "I liked Bill's so much, he doubled back to the place he got it from and bought another," Eddie said, marveling at Mike's kindness. "Isn't that crazy?"

Richie had nodded, eyes still closed. "Pretty crazy."

Richie stood in front of the couch now, looking at the red blanket. It made the brown leather of the couch look better, somehow. It matched. All the things in the room matched, even though they didn't—the art prints and the candle on the mantelpiece, the red blanket and the bookends on the no-longer-empty bookcase. The area rug that hid the ugly brown carpet was blue and darker blue, but somehow it matched too. Even the fucking mosaic toad, which Richie had bought at a market in New Orleans _because_ it was the ugliest thing he'd ever seen, cohered. 

The kitchen was a mess, but Eddie's handiwork was visible here, too. The polished nickel knobs he'd carefully installed had been carefully removed again, stacked neatly on the table, waiting for the new cabinetry to be delivered. The walls were a bright, gleaming white, although Eddie swore the shade had yellow undertones. The backsplash tiles were still in their box, buried beneath bundles of cutlery and stacked pans and plates. Eddie had been so proud of them, the subway tiles flecked with gold. Richie had kissed behind the shell of his ear and said, "Do the tiles have yellow undertones too?" In retaliation, Eddie elbowed him in the ribs, then pulled him down into a kiss. The tile, still in his closed fist, was cold when it brushed against Richie's neck.

The guest room—Eddie's old room—was dark. Richie flipped the light on and looked around. He hadn't been in here; there had been no point. First it had been Eddie's room and he'd been leaving Eddie his privacy, and then Eddie was sleeping upstairs, leaving this room undisturbed. The bed was still made. Why, he wondered, hadn't Eddie brought his nice blue-and-white comforter upstairs with him? He'd brought everything else. But then he hadn't brought much in the first place. Richie had helped him slice through the packing tape on his shipped boxes and said, "Is this all you brought?" and Eddie said, not meeting his eyes, "I wanted a clean break."

He'd brought clothes and old novels, his college diploma and his noise-cancelling headphones, seven clunky silver watches and a faded old workshirt that had belonged to his father. The clothes were in Richie's closet, except for the suits—Eddie still hadn't unpacked those, save the gray one he'd worn to be deposed. The novels were slid carelessly into the book shelf that had only ever held the mosaic toad and junk mail before. His diploma was somewhere. Neither of them could remember where. Richie mocked Eddie mercilessly for owning watches and never wearing them—"At least I don't buy the ugliest shirts known to man," Eddie said when he did. The bristles of their toothbrushes touched where they stood in an old mug on the bathroom vanity; Eddie's laptop charger curled over the crumpled Notebook where Richie's set notes lay. And Eddie's father's shirt remained folded, undisturbed, in the top drawer of Richie's bureau.

The first time Eddie came into Richie's bedroom was that first week, when he could barely get upstairs without hyperventilating and going pale with pain. After Richie, heartsick and stupid, had hidden for days, Eddie had dragged himself upstairs and yelled, "Why'd you even ask me to come here, if you can't even look at me?" and then he'd staggered. They had ended up sitting on the landing, knees touching, Eddie's chest still heaving, while Richie tried to explain that he was _glad_ that Eddie had come to California. He was just so glad that it terrified him. Eddie had put his hand on Richie's knee and said, "I didn't come all the way to California just to miss you again. Idiot."

Richie was wandering now, looking at every room for signs of Eddie. They were everywhere: every room had something Eddie had painted or bought or rearranged or provided. But there was more Richie in the house, too—Eddie hadn't just bought things for himself. It was his poster hanging on the wall, his pots and pans that Eddie had diligently sorted and classified by shape and size. Richie had mentioned the lemon soap his mom had always kept in the kitchen, and a bottle appeared by the sponges and wire brush. He'd been the one to pick out the frames for Eddie's art prints, taking care to make sure they matched the concert poster, already framed. He'd even hung them himself, doing the work one day while Eddie was at therapy. Richie had taken great pains to get each frame meticulously straight, but it had been worth it when Eddie came home, surprised and delighted to find them there.

His feet took him back to the kitchen. He picked his way through the boxes and liberated a glass, ran it under the tap and took a long drink. He still remembered the day Eddie kissed him for the first time, right here in the kitchen. Eddie had made spiralized zucchini for dinner, and Richie had been privately furious because a squash was _not_ a noodle, no matter what Eddie's silly cookbook said. He'd still eaten it, though, because Eddie had made it. Upon realizing this, Eddie said in an astonished voice, "You ate it? I thought you hated it," and Richie, slightly confused, said, "Yeah, but you cooked for me, Eds, of course I'm gonna eat it." Then he'd gone to put the plates in the sink but Eddie had said, "Hey, come here a minute," and kissed him instead. Richie had had one hand full of dirty dishes for their first kiss.

He'd hardly believed it was really happening. After, Eddie had drawn back not even an inch and said, in a plaintive voice, "Richie, do you—?"

Richie was only now realizing the substance of Eddie's question.

It seemed indefensible that Richie had not noticed that Eddie was in love with him. The house was a fucking monument to it. Overwhelmed, Richie had to sink to the ground among all the boxes and stare at his own socked feet. 

He had always wanted a nice house, in the same way that he had wanted love, a family, a normal life—he just hadn't thought it was possible. But Eddie, despite being a close-lipped, secretive bastard, thought it _was_. And he had fucked it up royally by never _mentioning_ any of that to Richie, but his heart was in the task. His heart was all over everything: the paint, the backsplash, the area rug, the paintings on the wall. He was all over Richie's life, too.

The therapist who had long ago taught him the word _catastrophizing_ had also shown him a very simple exercise to combat it: tell himself different, better scenarios. Like everything therapy-related, Richie had loathed this, because it seemed too obvious to work. But maybe therapy was like houses—maybe doing a series of small, unglamorous tasks paid off in the end.

He could talk to Eddie. He could tell Eddie how he felt about him. He could be brave and make things better for himself. 

With hands only slightly trembling, he typed:

_so I'm sitting here in the kitchen and I have something really important to tell you_

To his astonishment, Eddie opened the message immediately, the read receipt popping up at once. But what was _really_ shocking was that Eddie called him. Richie, baffled, picked up, and Eddie said in a rush, "What happened to the cabinets?"

"What—no, the cabinets are fine," Richie said. "They're not being delivered til Thursday."

"You said there was something important in the kitchen. I thought Home Depot called."

"No, they're fine," Richie said, or he thought they were, anyway. No one had called. He still hadn't packed everything up and cleaned the kitchen out for the installers to come, but Eddie didn't need to know that right now. "Home Depot's still coming on Thursday. That's not—it's about me. About us."

There was a long, wary silence; Richie spent it clutching his phone so hard the metal bit into his hand. He could feel his heart thudding in his ears. At last, Eddie said, "I don't see what there is to talk about, Richie. If you don't feel the same way, then I'll just—"

"Eddie. Man, that is _not_ the problem," Richie said. "Of _course_ I feel the same way, of course I love you, Eds. I'm so in love with you it is literally terrifying."

He said it on impulse. He'd meant to work up to it, maybe give Eddie some effusive praise first, maybe offer to suck his dick every day for the rest of their lives. But he'd botched it. The very first time he'd told Eddie he loved him and it was from the kitchen floor, halfway through a garbled apology, on the phone.

Eddie said nothing. That was fair, but it didn't feel _good_. Feeling lightheaded, Richie pressed his forehead to his knees. "I really didn't expect to tell you this over the phone."

"Okay," Eddie said, slowly at first, but picking up speed as he warmed to his theme, "Well, it would have been nice if you'd told me last week, when I said it first and you didn't _say anything_ , so I didn't have to stand there like a fucking asshole."

It made him wince—both the accusation, true though it was, and the anger and hurt in Eddie's voice. Richie pushed one hand flat against the tile to ground himself, pressing down until the lines of grout started to push back into his hand. "I know," he said, "Fuck, I'm really—I want to explain everything, and I don't want to tell you over the phone, but you should know that part, Eddie. Even if you never want to see me again, which I think I would understand at this point, you should know. I'm in love with you."

"Then _why_ didn't you tell me that?"

"Because," Richie said despondently. "I'm stupid? I'm afraid? Because I hate myself so much that I've spent decades pretending to be a frat bro, low-rent misogynist while I fuck guys who don't care about me, and then I get surprised when they kick me to the curb? There's a bunch of reasons, Eddie, and I don't know if any of them are good, but—I want to explain. If you'll let me."

Eddie said nothing, again. Richie had never known Eddie to take such long pauses between words; he wished he could see Eddie's face. Not just because he had no idea what he was thinking—he just wanted to see him.

"So you don't think we're just banging things out?"

Groaning, Richie shoved his glasses out of the way to knead at his eye socket. _Why_ had he used that phrase in particular. "I mean, I did, because I'm so fucking scared and fucked up that I was convincing myself it didn't mean anything. You told me you loved me and I panicked, and I ran. But I'm not doing that anymore. Or, fuck, I'm trying not to."

"So what does that mean?"

"It means we should talk, like, a bunch, but also," Richie said, heart in his throat. "You should come home. If you want to."

On the other end of the line, Eddie exhaled slowly. He moved and sat down on something, a bed or a sofa, something that creaked under his weight. "Okay," he said, after what felt like a lifetime. Richie's heart leapt wildly, but then Eddie said, "But not tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because," Eddie said, that little edge creeping back into his voice, "I'm still fucking pissed at you, Richie. That was fucking _humiliating_ , and I had to show up at Bill's front door like an orphan, and he keeps trying to get me to talk about it. He's probably gonna put this whole thing in a _book_. I'm gonna need twelve hours to mentally prepare to look at you again. Tomorrow."

When he put it like that, Richie got it. "Okay. Tomorrow," he said. Then, recklessly, he added, "Eds?"

Eddie sighed, but his tone was gentle when he said, "Don't call me Eds."

"Thank you," Richie said. "For giving me the chance."

Eddie sighed again, long-suffering and—Richie didn't think he was imagining it—full of affection. “You're welcome, Richie." And then he hung up.

Richie made no move to stand up. He just sat there, feeling like a rock on a beachhead, absolutely swept over by waves of relief. He lifted his hand off the tile floor at last and it came away with pink grooves indented into his skin. Richie flexed that hand gently, amazed. Eddie was going to come home.

First he had to fix the kitchen. Eddie was going to come _home_ , and Richie was going to tell him that he loved him, on purpose and to his face—it had to be tidy in here. Even if Eddie _weren't_ coming back, the Home Depot needed to rip these cabinets out in two days, which meant that Richie would have to finish sorting them and actually get them out of here. And the rest of the house could use tidying, too. After Eddie had lovingly decorated and updated every inch of it, the least Richie could do was make sure it looked nice for him.

What else could he do, to show Eddie that he was serious? What else was there? Richie had taken a massive step forward in his career, he had been honest with Eddie—what else was left that he could do to show Eddie how much he loved him?

Fuck. He knew exactly what was left.

Unfortunately, it required at least one more phone call.

It was a little after five o'clock in Atlanta, but Stan picked up right away. "Oh hey, Richie," he said, "How you doing?""

"Hi Stan," Richie said, clutching a hand to his chest. "I'm doing okay."

"Good." Stan sounded happy to hear from Richie, despite the lack of warning, despite Richie hanging up in a panic the last time they'd spoken. Because Stan loved him. "Hold on one second, I'm putting dinner in the oven." Richie listened as Stan moved around his own kitchen, preparing food for the person he loved most in the world. "Okay. What's up?"

Richie squeezed that hand into a fist. "How are you doing, Stan?"

"I'm good, Richie," Stan said. "I'm really good. Patty and I took a walk through the city park today, just the two of us. It was very peaceful. Saw a turtledove, which was nice."

"How was cookbook club?"

Stan seemed surprised, yet pleased, that Richie had remembered. "It was great. Our friends Helen and Tanya hosted, and they made Eritrean food, which involves a lot of chickpeas, but it was good."

That did sound nice. Eddie didn't cook with chickpeas because he retained a lingering suspicion that legumes would poison him, but maybe he would like to try it. While Richie mused on that, Stan said, "What's going on with you, Richie?"

Richie hesitated. Did being vulnerable ever get _easier_? It felt like pulling out a tooth, every time. But he wasn't going to fail now at the last hurdle. Mustering up all his courage, he said, "Can I do something deeply unprecedented, and ask for your help?"

"Oh," Stan said, astonished. "I mean—sure, Richie. Of course you can."

"Great. I want to be deeply, almost unbearably vulnerable with you, like, totally unburdening my soul, and then I want you to explain to me how to find a new therapist."

Stan took a moment to digest that sentence; it was a very long moment for Richie, who hung suspended in the air like half a trapeze act, waiting to see if Stan would catch him. "Okay," Stan said simply. "I mean, it'll depend on your insurance coverage, but sure, Richie. I can help you with that."

Richie nodded, stomach unclenching a little bit. "Thanks Stan," he said.

"Is there—can I do anything else?"

"Actually," Richie said, looking at all the dishes piled up around their wreck of a kitchen and thinking about the myriad different ways to say _I love you_ , "There is one more thing you can help me with."

+++

Wednesday afternoon, almost twenty four hours to the minute after Eddie had said he was coming home, and Richie had only thought one in his head: it was embarrassingly difficult to chop garlic.

He had done okay with the onion, although the dicing was a little haphazard, but the garlic cloves were defeating him. Why didn't they teach you this skill in high school? Richie had been peeling the thin papery skin off each clove for ten minutes now, which was pathetic and also endangering the rest of his schedule. Eddie had texted earlier, saying he'd be over around seven—the sauce needed to simmer for at least thirty minutes and it was past six already.

"Jesus Christ," Richie said to himself, plucking the last piece of skin off the garlic. All that work, for six little cloves of garlic. This recipe had better blow Eddie's mind.

He chopped the garlic roughly and then dumped it in the same bowl as the onion. The next step in Stan's recipe said: heat olive oil and butter in a saute pan until it foamed. Well, Richie had a skillet of medium size, and he supposed that would do. The oil and butter sat at the bottom of the pan for a long minute, doing nothing. Right as Richie was about to call Stan, again, the butter started to foam. Relieved, Richie added the onions and garlic.

Richie had never, ever done this. Not cooking—he could admit, grudgingly to himself, that he did know how to cook a _little_ bit, could at least fry bacon and cook noodles and even, on occasion, make pancakes—but cooking for someone else. In his head, it was one of those ultra-romantic activities that competent adults did for each other. Ben cooked for Bev, he was sure of it. Sometimes as a child Richie was sent to his room with his own cheese pizza while his father cooked for his mom; he remembered that his dad would hum as he cooked and his mom would drink wine and they'd light candles all around the kitchen. Richie, blindly hopeful, had dug out candles and he'd put a bottle of wine in the fridge. All he could do now was hope that Eddie would like it.

The smell of the onions and garlic cooking wafted pleasantly through the kitchen. Richie saw the appeal, a little bit. Maybe he'd start cooking more. Cooking brought Eddie genuine joy, but Richie didn't think there was a person alive who would not be pleased to arrive home to a set table and a steaming hot dinner, cooked with love.

That was the theory behind tonight's meal, anyway. Richie was pretty sure he was doing a miserable job so far, so he hoped the gesture behind the cooking carried equal weight to the quality of the food.

Richie was so deeply lost in thought that he didn’t hear the gate open, or the sound of footsteps crunching up the gravel. He was just standing there, eyeballing the next steps in Stan’s recipe, when there came the distinctive sound of the front door opening. "Richie?" Eddie called. "You home?"

Richie nearly dropped the spatula in surprise. He whirled to check the oven clock—six-thirteen. The food was uncooked, and the kitchen was a mess; Richie had gotten most of the kitchenware boxed up in preparation for the new cabinets, but there was a slick of ingredients all over the counter, plus the candles and the random pots and pans he thought he might end up using. In short, nothing was ready. It was hardly the romantic scene he'd hoped to impress Eddie with.

He should have factored in Eddie's obsession with timeliness, though. That was a rookie mistake. Swearing under his breath, he went to go find Eddie, preferably before he saw the mess Richie had made of the kitchen.

"Eddie? Dude, you're so early, I'm not—?" He broke off suddenly, halting abruptly in the middle of the living room. "Is that—are those—?"

Eddie stood just inside the front door, the ratty backpack slung over one shoulder, his other arm wrapped around the biggest bouquet Richie had ever seen in real life. What looked like an explosion of dark red roses hung in the crook of Eddie's arm, the cellophane wrapper crinkling as Eddie shifted. "I said around seven," he said. "You're wearing my apron. Are you—you're cooking?"

"Yeah, to apologize," Richie said, then winced. He'd meant to be smoother about that. "For, you know, everything. Are those for me?"

Eddie seemed to remember in real time the bouquet in his arms. "Yeah. Um," he said, and a blush appeared atop his cheeks. "Bill pointed out that I may have been contributing to the problem. Actually, he called me an idiot. For trying to date you without talking about it and then being mad at you for not being able to read my mind."

Richie thought of several responses, including immediately falling at Eddie's feet, and discarded them all. All he could do was stare at Eddie, standing there in the outfit he'd fled the house in on Thursday, holding a bouquet of roses bigger than his head.

Eddie stared back, until suddenly his nose wrinkled. "Is something burning?"

"Fuck!" Richie yelled, and skidded back into the kitchen.

The onions and garlic had shriveled and charred in some places, going black and crispy around the edges. Richie shook the pan, hoping to unstick them. They didn't move until Richie poked at them with the spatula. Unfortunately, several of them were black on the underside too, looking thoroughly burnt.

"Oh my God," Eddie said from behind him, sounding dazed.

When Richie turned around, Eddie stood at the threshold, taking in the uninhibited chaos of the room. Richie cringed. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm so sorry, I made Stan send me the recipe, I thought it would be cute. It's not cute, is it?" he said, panicking, shoving the cans of tomato sauce and box of pasta out of the way, trying to hide them from Eddie's view. "It's fucking stupid, isn't it—"

"Stop," Eddie said, laying his hand on Richie's wrist. "It's not stupid. Let me help you."

It was a little stupid. Stan had rattled off some options that he thought were within Richie's skill level and Richie had said, "Spaghetti? Would that be cute?" Stan had diplomatically refrained from comment, so here Richie was, cooking Eddie spaghetti.

Eddie took all of this in stride. He simply nudged Richie out of the way, stood in front of the stove and rolled his sleeves up. Turning the heat down, he traded in Richie's metal spatula for a wooden spoon and added more olive oil to the pan, making the onions sizzle. While he did that, he nodded at the bouquet he'd left on the countertop. "Sorry to make you cut your own flowers," he said, "But can you—?"

He could. Richie owned one vase, of uncertain provenance, and it was almost too small for the enormous bouquet, but he made it work. He had a hazy memory from childhood of his mom trimming cut flowers at sharp angles, so he did that, too. The roses were beautiful; Richie had never been given flowers before.

"Oh," Eddie said. When Richie turned, Eddie's gaze was fixed over his shoulder, at the wall next to the fridge. "You hung the painting."

"Yeah," Richie said. He had hung the Warhol painting where he could see it not only every time he walked into the kitchen, but also from the dining room and the living room beyond. "I love it. Do you—did you want it somewhere else?'

"No," Eddie said, still looking at the painting. "It looks good right where it is."

Richie agreed. He put the bouquet on the counter right beneath the painting, two expressions of Eddie's love, side by side.

Eddie flipped the unsalvageable, burnt pieces back onto the cutting board and pushed the remaining onions around, keeping it all in motion. He kept lifting his head, though, checking that Richie was really still there, still wearing the apron. "You didn't have to do this, Richie."

"I know," Richie said. His heartbeat kicked up a gear, but he pushed through it. "I wanted to, though. I finally figured out why you've been cooking for the last seven and a half months."

"Well, I figured it was either learn to cook or starve, living with you," Eddie said, which earned a snort from Richie. "But yeah," he continued. "It was also for you."

Richie could not believe he had not known that Eddie loved him. It was as if he'd gotten snagged on a rusty nail of self-loathing and had been running in place for months, going nowhere and exhausting himself in the process. _Of course_ it had been for him. There was a world of difference between microwaving Lean Cuisines and cooking full meals each night, then dividing dinner into Tupperware containers so that Richie would always have lunch the next day.

He shook his head in amazement at himself. "I know I'm a stupid asshole, but Eddie, I didn't realize _any_ of it was for me."

"You thought I just woke up one morning and decided to pick up interior decorating as a hobby?" Eddie asked. When Richie guiltily turned his face away, Eddie's voice became incredulous. " _Richie_. Jesus, Rich, you think I ever gave a shit about buying rugs before?"

Richie sighed. He had workshopped this next part with Bev _and_ Stan, but it was different saying it to Eddie. Jamming his hands into the big front pocket of the apron, he shrugged and said, "The thing you have to understand, Eddie, is that I thought I was going to die alone. Like, I had come to terms with it, and I had Steve, and a bunch of work acquaintances and the occasional hookup with closet cases, and I figured that was fine. That was as good as it was gonna get. And then you came back into my life and I had to remember that I was in love with you, which fucking sucked, and then you moved in with me and just started making my life better in every conceivable way."

He paused, gauging the expression on Eddie's face to make sure that he understood. "I wasn't being nice when I said that, Eddie. You do."

"So you were already in love with me in Derry?'

"I was in love with you in grade school," Richie said honestly. Eddie's mouth fell open.

"You were? You just invited me to move in with you without saying anything?"

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty fucking stupid," Richie said. Understatement, but still. "In my defense, I fucking hate myself and it was genuinely unthinkable to me that it would ever be an issue, because I'm, you know. Me. But then you kissed me, and—I'm not blaming you, I'm just saying—you didn't say anything about it. So I thought, okay, cool, Eddie's kissing guys now, I'm stupid enough to go along with this. And I am. I'm exactly stupid enough to kiss you, and have sex with you, and let you buy me thoughtful gifts for almost a year and never put two and two together."

Eddie raised his eyebrows until those frown lines that Richie loved appeared. "I didn't know I needed to say anything," he said slowly, setting the spoon down and pointing to the spices sitting on the counter. Richie handed them to him. Eddie didn't bother to measure, just added however much he wanted as he continued to speak. "I thought it was so obvious, how I felt. When I was in the hospital and you asked me to come stay with you, I said yes because I didn't want to be away from you. Then we were together every day in Bangor, and I just—I liked you so much. I know I was basically homeless, but I came here for you. And then we were _here_ , in your house, and living with you was... really good."

He laughed as if he were surprised at himself. "I don't think I've ever lived with someone I actually _liked_ before."

"Just liked?" Richie said, feeling daring.

Shaking his head, Eddie added more olive oil to the pan. He was using a _lot_ of oil, though Richie didn't dare criticize. "More than that. Obviously." He flicked a look at Richie then, as if to say, don't be smug. "I was going to wait til I was divorced to make my move, but I couldn't wait, I couldn't go one more day without kissing you."

He thought for a moment, and then he gave Richie a very concerned look. "What did you think, when we had sex?"

Richie winced. "Uh. That you wanted to have sex, and I was convenient?"

" _Richie._ "

"I know," Richie said, curling his shoulders inward, as if to hide from Eddie's scrutiny. "Not for nothing, but. I'm going back to therapy. In case you were worried about the whole, punishingly low self-worth thing."

Eddie nodded. "Good," he said, "I mean, genuinely, that's really good, Rich, because you should _definitely_ be in therapy. But also, I want you to be happy."

Richie _was_ happy. Sure he was depressed and he self-sabotaged and he had difficulty believing anything good might happen, ever, but since Eddie had come to California, Richie was happier than he had ever been. "People are gonna think you like me or something."

Unfortunately, saying this made Eddie's expression shutter and his shoulders climb up around his ears. "Yeah, well, I wish you had told me all this before I got naked in front of you," he said, turning his back to Richie. He took a deep breath in and held it for a moment, rib cage flaring. "That was—that was a really shitty morning. Kinda thought you'd taken one look at me shirtless and decided to get out while you could."

"Jesus, _no_ , Eddie," Richie said. "First of all, I came my brains out inside of you, didn't I? That was the sexiest thing I've ever _seen_. How could it not be? Your scar is badass and sexy because you got it saving my life, remember?" He reached for Eddie's free arm, his left one, and touched his bicep. When Eddie didn't shake him off, Richie squeezed it gently, reassuringly. "And it meant a lot to me. That you trusted me, that you let me look at you."

For a moment it seemed as if Eddie might freeze up, but then he didn't; then he purposefully relaxed. Emboldened, Richie stepped closer. "Plus, I'm in love with your scrawny little ass, as is." A laugh rippled through Eddie, although he didn't let it out. Richie smiled, though, knowing he had him. "You're so smart, and so hot, and you're so neurotic about the weirdest things, and you are insanely generous, I don't understand it. Of course I'm in love with you."

Eddie wasn't smiling, not yet, but the angry, hurt way he had been carrying himself had loosened, gone soft. "Get me the ground beef," he said.

Richie did so without complaining. While he cut through the plastic packaging with a pair of kitchen scissors, Eddie said, "I thought you were, you know. Well, I thought maybe I was just seeing what I wanted, telling myself you loved me—but Richie, you didn't act like it was casual."

Richie turned around and Eddie took the beef from him without saying anything more. He dumped it into the pan and started to smash the meat into smaller chunks, not angrily but forcefully; Richie, meanwhile, stood beside him, fidgeting as he watched Eddie work.

"I didn't _want_ it to be casual," he admitted. "I just—you didn't say anything, Eds. I get why, but it really, really fucked me up."

Sighing, Eddie said, "I know." He stepped back from the hot stove and ran his hands over his face, thumb catching on that white stitch of scar tissue in his cheek. "I know I should have said it out loud, I _know that_ , but—I'm not good at saying things. I thought I had gotten over my childhood, what Sonia did to me, but I didn't. I never figured out how to talk about my feelings, because she—her feelings were always weapons, you know?"

What Richie knew about Sonia only scratched the surface of a deep, fathomless hurt—but he thought he understood what Eddie meant, as much as anyone could. Very gently, he touched the back of Eddie's hand. "I'm sorry, Eds."

Without appearing to think about it, Eddie laced their fingers together and squeezed. Just for a moment, though, because he picked up the wooden spoon and returned to stove and the skillet. "It's fine. I mean, it's not, but. I guess I think that if I don't say anything, I'm not like her. Because I'm not smothering," he explained.

Richie desperately wanted to say that Eddie had never smothered him, but he sensed he should not interrupt: Eddie's expression was far-away, like he was talking to himself as much as Richie. "If I just kissed you and you kissed me back, it wasn't because I made you do it. That's why I was worried about the painting and stuff, you know. Because I was doing it for you but if you didn't like it, if you were just humoring me—I know what I'm like," he concluded, shrugging. "I tell you what to do all the time."

In no universe was Eddie being a know-it-all about finances comparable to Sonia torturing him as a child. Richie _needed_ Eddie to know this.

"You're not her, Eds. You're not controlling. Don't get me wrong, you're bossy as fuck, but you don't steamroll me, you listen to me, you give a fuck. You asked my opinion about all of this." He flung his arms wide, encompassing the paint, the tile, the art, everything. "We spent weeks looking at Pinterest together, remember? I mean, you bought me an Andy Warhol, for Christ's sake."

Eddie smiled, but it was for Richie's benefit; Richie could tell. "I just—I don't ever want to be her," he said quietly. "And I don't want to be what she thought I was, either. I'm not—I still hear in my head, the way she talked, about everything. About how dangerous the world was, about the evil gays and their diseases—God, she'd freak if she knew where I was right now."

"Are you? Gay, I mean?"

Eddie opened his mouth and then shut it, then stared down into the pan of ground beef like he thought there might be an escape hatch in there. Hastily, Richie moved to retract the question. "Listen, I'm not trying to make you come out here, God knows I've been closeted my entire life, I just..."

The truth was he wanted to know. He'd never said jackshit to Eddie about being gay, but Eddie had guessed and guessed correctly, whereas Richie had clung to any improbable excuse that would explain away Eddie's behavior. But now, if they were being honest, Richie wanted to know. He wanted to know who Eddie was.

Eddie, agitated, chewed on his lip. Head still bowed, he laid both hands flat on the counter on either side of the stove. Richie could see the muscles of his back and shoulders contracting. "Can you get me the sauce?" he said, voice tight.

Richie, acutely nervous, did so, popping the ring-pull tabs on the crushed tomatoes and the tomato paste. Eddie added them in to the pan. "Next time," he said, still sounding strangled, "You should cook the beef first. So the onions can brown in the fat."

"Eddie," Richie said, unsure if he meant to be encouraging or to offer him the out.

"Rich. _God_ ," Eddie said, and for a moment, he gripped the handle of the skillet so tight he seemed like he might fling it across the kitchen. But he didn't—he just took a shaky breath, then another, less uneven, then a third. "Okay," he said, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, "I'm not—I wasn't anything, before Derry, or at least not anything relevant."

"But you were married."

Flinching, Eddie shook his head. "I never told you this because it's so—I hate that I did this," he said. "I married her because it felt like the only thing to do. And it's not like I knew I was gay or anything, at the time. I didn't feel anything, for anyone, and I just thought I was completely fucked in the head. When I figured it out, I didn't want to be that guy. That guy who fucks a woman over by marrying her when he never loved her, never even found her _attractive_. It was barely even a marriage for me, you know? She was just a placeholder. She loved me, at first, and I treated her like shit."

He sighed, then nodded at the stove. "What's next?"

Dutifully, Richie pulled up Stan's recipe on his phone: add beef stock. He poured the stock into the skillet as Eddie stirred. Richie had no idea what to say here. Maybe Eddie had acted badly, but Richie didn't care. He didn't care about Myra, even though it seemed that she was just an innocent bystander in the wreck that Derry and Sonia had made of Eddie's life. Richie only cared about Eddie. He didn't have room in his heart for anything but the avalanche of love inside him.

"And then I went to Maine and there was _you_ ," Eddie said, still in that same soft voice, shot through with guilt. "And I suddenly realized I'd been one way my whole life and I never paid attention to it, just shoved it down so deeply _I_ didn't even know about it. I wanted you. I wanted to be around you. I got fucking stabbed and nearly died and I was still thinking, 'God, I hope Rich doesn't go back to LA just yet. I hope he sticks around.' I didn't think about her once."

While Richie was processing that _bombshell_ , Eddie cleared his throat and said, "So anyway. That's why I let her keep the condo."

Richie gave up and yanked Eddie into his arms. Eddie made a noise of protest, but when Richie didn't let go, he slumped, all the tension going out of him at once.

He felt good in Richie's arms. Eddie was taking artificially slow, steady breaths, walking himself back from the ledge, and Richie ran his hands up and down Eddie’s spine, soothing him. He smelled like different shampoo, like citrus instead of sandalwood, but he felt familiar and comforting and _good._ Richie knew that the inside of his head was still a war zone, and maybe it always would be, but he couldn't give this up. If Richie had to be vulnerable and work on himself and, ugh, go to therapy so that he could be this person for Eddie, he'd do it.

"Sorry to keep harping on this," Richie said, tone as light as possible, "But. You said you didn't know. That you were..."

"Gay? Yeah. That's me," Eddie said. He turned in Richie's grip, poking at the cooking meat in the skillet with his wooden spoon. Richie did not let go of him. It was tricky to hold him while he cooked, but Richie could feel the way Eddie was finely trembling; he decided he didn't give a shit about errant grease burns. "Forty years old and you're the first person I ever said it out loud to."

"Well I never told anyone," Richie said against Eddie's temple. "So I guess you're the brave one."

Making an unhappy, wordless noise, Eddie shook his head. "I don't _want_ to be brave. I helped kill a fucking alien clown, you know. I have this big disgusting scar from it, too, and now I gotta spend the rest of my life wondering if people will treat me differently just because of this thing, that I didn't even pick? That's bullshit. I already was brave."

Richie, feeling the familiar stirrings of disappointment in his stomach, let his arms drop to his sides. "Okay," he started to say.

"No, Richie, wait," Eddie said at once, spinning around to catch Richie and reel him back in. He put his hands on Richie's face, cupping the span of his cheek and gazing up at him. His hands smelled like onions, which was a weird detail that Richie knew he would remember forever. "It's bullshit and it's unfair, but it's worth it. I want to love you, Richie. I like loving you."

It was Richie's turn to crumble into Eddie's body, hiding his face in the crook of Eddie's neck. "Shit, Richie—" Eddie said, sounding alarmed.

"Please, just—I can't handle you saying this shit, Eddie," he said, not daring to look up at him. "I'm just a middle-aged man with self-esteem issues."

"I know," Eddie said, a smile in his voice. "I still love you, dipshit."

Richie laughed shakily, still hiding. There was a sharp tug on his apron strings. "Please look at me," Eddie said. "I want to kiss you and I also don't want the food to burn."

"Eddie," Richie said, instead of uncovering his face, "You know I..."

He couldn't finish. But Eddie said, "Yeah. I know. You cooked."

" _You_ cooked," Richie said, and he stopped hiding at last. "You painted my house, Eds, and redid the kitchen and framed my poster and bought me a Warhol painting. And I didn't notice any of it. You know how Bill said you were an idiot? Well, Bev called me an idiot for not noticing. Apparently I _was_ supposed to realize you painting the bathroom was a declaration of love."

"I mean," Eddie said, shrugging. "It was."

"Okay. That's good," Richie said, and he might have said more if it weren't for the fact that he needed to kiss Eddie so badly he couldn't think straight.

Unlike their first kiss, when Richie had been so surprised he'd barely moved and Eddie had been so keyed up he almost knocked the dirty dishes from Richie's grasp, this kiss was gentle and unhurried. Eddie put his hands on Richie's cheeks, guiding his his head down and kissing him sweetly. It was nice. It was the kind of kiss Richie had dreamed about since he was a teenager: chaste and soft, laced with promise. There was no need to rush; they had all the time in the world.

After a mere minute of kissing, though, Eddie reared back, so that Richie's mouth traveled over his chin instead of his lips. "Wait—how was your meeting, with the _Suspension_ people? Bill's been dying to call and ask how it went."

Privately, Richie thought this question could have held til later, but it was kind of Bill to worry and decent of Eddie to want to report back to him. That was probably just Richie's love-addled heart talking, though. "Good, I think. I'm gonna come in and read for a role." Remembering the interesting gossip that Bev and Ben had told him, he added, "By the way, did you know Mike and Bill are in love with each other?"

"Oh thank God," Eddie said, sounding hugely relieved. His fingers were sweeping in a wide arc across Richie’s neck, delicate and mindless; it felt incredible. "Do you have any idea how much time Bill spends when we're hanging out together just whining about Mike?"

Richie laughed despite himself—did _everyone_ know except him, did they have a secret group chat behind his back or what—but Eddie had grown tired of talking. Right as Richie started to say some funny quip, Eddie kissed him again.

Behind them, the sauce bubbled merrily away while Richie and Eddie made out like teenagers. Eddie had pressed himself so close to Richie that he was literally standing on Richie's feet, up on his tip-toes to fit their mouths together better. Richie, half-delirious with happiness, just held onto him as best he could.

"Eventually," he pointed out, dragging kisses across the curve of Eddie's jaw, "You'll have to let me go so I can cook the noodles."

"Screw the noodles," Eddie said firmly.

Richie was extremely pleased to have a chance, all these months later, to retort, "You'll burn your dick." Eddie groaned and rolled his eyes but Richie merely beamed at him and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Eddie's pants, right where his skin was softest. Eddie shivered at his touch. Growing bolder, Richie dared to raise Eddie's shirt and touch the dimpled scar tissue along his spine, and Eddie let him.

He had been in love with Eddie for so long, and all those years he'd carried it on his own, a thing belonging entirely to himself. But Eddie loved him back. He owned a part of that love, too. It was terrifying, the idea of having shared custody of his heart. Eddie had given him so much, though, including a second chance. In turn, Richie could be a grown-up and use his words, even though it still sucked so, so badly.

"Eds," he said tentatively. "Um. You might have to be patient with me. I don't know what I'm doing."

None of his previous relationships had lasted as long or mattered as much as Eddie. There was no one like Eddie—there never would be. When he said this, Eddie's expression softened. "I don't either, Rich. I've never... this is new for me too."

"Can you do me another favor? Can you just... you gotta tell me things. I'll do my best to trust you more, but I've had a lifetime of practice getting my hopes up and feeling like a stupid asshole for it. Just assume I need things spelled out for me, okay?"

"I can try. But Richie, you know, right? You have to know."

Nodding, Richie touched Eddie's cheek, lingering over the blaze of scar there. "I think I do. But..." He swallowed against his nerves. "I wanna be on the same page here."

Eddie gave him a wary, unhelpful look. "I talked already."

Yes, he had. And Richie had stuck his head in the sand for six months while Eddie was shouting his love at him with everything but words. So Richie, even though he loathed it, took the plunge and spoke first.

"Okay, well. I'm gay," he said, for the first time in his entire life. Eddie nodded encouragingly, a sweet smile on his face. "I'm clinically depressed, and I'm a semi-successful comedian, and as you know already I have the aesthetic tastes of a depressed semi-successful comedian." Here, Eddie laughed, and Richie smiled too but pressed on. "And I'm in love with you. I'm not good at this, being in a relationship, but I have never wanted to try harder, at anything, in my entire life. Your turn."

When Eddie looked like he might balk, Richie squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "Alright," Eddie said. "I don't want to move out. Ever. I know it's your house, but it's—I did it for the both of us. I want to be with you. Like, forever, preferably." He met Richie's gaze, looking as if he feared he might have overstepped. "Is that—what do you want?"

An idea popped into Richie's mind, fully-formed, like a flash of genius. "Hold on," he said, "I have something for you."

"I'm not in the right mind to make decisions on cabinetry right now, Rich," Eddie said, but Richie ignored him and ran upstairs to their bedroom.

He kept miscellaneous important documents in the same top drawer where Eddie's dad's shirt lay; he grabbed one of those sheets of paper now and returned to the kitchen, chest heaving, and handed it to Eddie. Eddie scanned it and his eyes went huge, wide as dinner plates. "Oh," he said softly. "Richie, no."

Richie nodded. "It's yours," he insisted.

"No, it's not—like, you know you have to pay a lawyer to do this, right?" Eddie said, trying to hand the deed to the house back to him. "You can't just give me this, it's not legally binding."

Instead of taking the deed, Richie took Eddie's hands and held them in his own. The deed crumpled a little bit, and Eddie made a distressed noise; Richie solved this problem by sticking the deed into his apron pocket. "Okay, so let's make it binding," he said, folding both of Eddie's hands into his. "I'll pay for the lawyer, I know you're still kinda burned by them."

Eddie worried at his bottom lip. "Richie. It's _your_ house."

"It's not," Richie said, and he meant it. "My house was fucking brown, dude, and it had holes in the wall, and the only decoration was the toad. It's ours."

Eddie was still wavering. Richie added, "Besides, you put in a ton of sweat equity. Am I using that term right?"

It earned him a laugh—a soft one, but still. Eddie looked at the pocket of his apron where the deed was still sticking out, its newly crumpled corner bobbing like a flag. "Richie..."

"I don't want you to move out, ever. I want you to stay, and I'm not just saying that because you cook and decorate and keep the place from looking shitty." He swallowed. "Cards on the table. I'm in love with you. I love you. Now let me put you on the fucking deed."

Eddie waited a long moment to think it over. It felt like ages, to Richie, but that was probably just because he wanted it, so much. When at last Eddie answered, he was smiling. "Okay."`

"Okay?"

"Yeah." He slid his arms around Richie's neck, holding him there; Richie touched his back, right over his scar. Then Eddie's smile turned sly. "I mean. I did do all the fucking work."

Barking out a laugh, Richie pressed their foreheads together. "Yeah, you did. But I don't know. There's a few rooms left for you to keep working on."

"Okay," Eddie said, lovingly but also with a certain amount of well-earned annoyance, " _Don't_ laugh at me, you asshole, but I have plans for the rest of the house."

Of course he did. And there was plenty for him to do—there were the three bedrooms, the awkward laundry room off the kitchen, the master bathroom with the too-short shower. If Eddie felt like getting into gardening, Richie would drive him to any plant nursery in southern California. And if he ever got tired of the way it looked, it was as much his house as Richie's—he was welcome to rip it all down to the studs and start over again.

"Eddie baby," Richie said seriously, tucking a stray piece of hair behind Eddie's ear, "I wouldn't have it any other way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: richie continues to be a dick about having literally murdered a guy; more mention of how shitty richie's old routine/persona were; richie chooses to seek out therapy although all the logistics/time-consuming stuff happens offscreen; eddie describes his confused prior understanding of his own sexuality in an aphobic way; eddie begins to unravel how his mother's emotional abuse affected his ability to communicate/self-image; discussion of internalized homophobia, comp het, richie's garbage self-esteem, and eddie's bad but ultimately not _so_ bad marriage. but since it's the last chapter it's like 65% love confessions and kissing.
> 
> thank you for reading, and for all the kind comments!!!


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